











Copyright -IV 


COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 







THE 

THIRD 

WEAVER 


Emily Calvin Blake 




♦ 


THE 

THIRD 

WEAVER 


Emily Calvin Blake / 

w 


“Of the tapestry itself , ... a worker 
took strands and wove and em¬ 
broidered , a bit here , a bit 
there , till the picture 
came out . . . and 
not so important 
the weaver as 
the pattern 
he made." 


Willett, Clark & Colby 

Chicago : 440 South Dearborn Street 
New York : 200 Fifth Avenue 


1929 

Co^ 




Copyright 1919 by 
WILLETT, CLARK & COLBY 




Manufactured in The U. S. A. by The Plimpton Press 
Norwood, Mass. - LaPorte, Ind. 


fZ3 

35S»^ 

TVi 


\ 

©cn 15123 

OCT 16 1929 ^ 


To the 
Memory 
of a Walk 
in the Rain 





THE 

THIRD 

WEAVER 






INFLUENCE 


lc\. QUAINT little figure in her Dolly Varden dress, 
Thaisa was often to be found in the drawing room of the old 
home in Manchester, gazing up at the immense tapestry that 
hung on the south wall facing the fireplace. 

There were many figures in the tapestry — men and 
women on their way somewhere — but the dominant figure, 
a youth, head uplifted, and dancing, his hands outstretched, 
filled her with a half-frightened joy. 

He seemed to be offering a gift. But what gift ? This she 
had to imagine, and it was a different gift at different 
times — clusters of purple grapes, or roses, or simply love. 

What troubled her, as she grew older, was that these fig¬ 
ures apparently were bound all for the same journey’s end, 
yet they seemed strangers to one another. Always she hoped 
that some day they would join hands and go forward danc¬ 
ing, like the somewhat aloof figure of the youth. 

Standing before the tapestry, she would wait for this con¬ 
summation. At high noon, when the sun came in through 
the long windows, the colors in the tapestry would come 
forth softly and her keen beauty-sense was satisfied, but still 
the figures remained unattached. 

Then at twilight, when she was tired and perhaps con¬ 
fused by the strange things she had learned of grown people, 
she would come to a different interpretation of the figures 
in the tapestry. 

i 



2 


The Third Weaver 


The youth was set apart and happier than the others be¬ 
cause he didn’t care. That was the only way she could put 
it, but her solution meant a great deal to her because she 
cared so deeply — about being loved — about beauty — about 
everybody being ‘ even,’ which meant equality to her. 

And at twilight was a sadness too, because she felt that the 
figures would never join hands until they knew something 
the youth knew. And it wouldn’t be much worth while — 
his just telling. She sensed that. One had to learn. 

Sometimes in the dusk, Grandmother sat in the room. 
Thaisa, turning from the tapestry, would go to lean against 
the thin old shoulder. ‘ Is it because he doesn’t care, that 
he is happy ? ’ she would ask. There was ice in Grand¬ 
mother’s spirit, but she understood Thaisa’s perplexities. 
‘ There are different ways of not caring,’ she would answer, 
and break off. And Thaisa would wait in vain for her to 
go on. 

Of the tapestry itself, Grandmother told her that a worker 
took strands and wove or embroidered, a bit here, a bit there, 
till the picture came out. 

Thaisa thought such a worker must be very wonderful. 

But Grandmother said no, just a man, an ordinary weaver. 
And not so important the weaver as the pattern he made. 


PART ONE 


T 

JL HAISA’S pattern began in the English life when she 
lived with her grandparents and Richard, her father, in the 
old Victoria Park home. In those days her poke bonnet 
framed a face chiefly distinguished for its look of sensitive 
curiosity. Her skin was pale with clear rose tints; her grey 
eyes a surprise against that tender color. The copper tinted 
hair falling straight below her shoulders had an alive quality 
that brought out, even in shadow, unexpected gleams. 

She was very happy. Most of the time, she danced about 
the halls of this ancestral home, or played in the beautifully 
kept grounds. Afterwards she would walk through the 
glass conservatory in which a hundred golden canaries sang. 
This place belonged to Richard. There had been a stable 
with fine horses once, but now it stood empty, the horses 
sold, the old coachman gone. 

One summer her cousin Bobby came from America to visit 
his grandparents. Bobby’s father and Thaisa’s were broth¬ 
ers. Bobby, it seemed to Thaisa, held strange viewpoints. 
He told her that his father was a great man who worked in 
a coffee house of which he was manager. Thaisa had con¬ 
fided that her father too was great, at which absurdity 
Bobby stared. 

‘ What does he do? ’ he inquired. ‘ In New York a man 
has to work.’ 

‘ He makes you happy.’ 


3 



4 


The Third Weaver 


Thaisa’s ideality struck him as ridiculous, and he dis¬ 
dained to answer. But his attitude did not in the slightest 
degree touch Thaisa’s worship for her father. She thought 
of him as big and strong, with a swift wind in him that took 
away her breath. When she was tired he would hold her 
and sing in a deep baritone voice that made strange thrills 
play up and down her spine; or he would draw music from 
the organ on the balcony that jutted out over the big cen¬ 
ter hall. 

‘ I suppose your mother’s a great woman too! ’ Bobby 
remarked. Now in reality Thaisa knew little of her mother, 
Jenny Worthington. Just flashes of an exuberant personality 
that came and went in the old home — a gay figure, sud¬ 
denly appearing, wearing garish colors, and with quantities 
of black hair done in a waterfall under an impudent lit¬ 
tle hat. 

It was evident, of course, that Jenny belonged to Richard — 
that gay, imperturbable father who, though very affable at 
first, shortly after her arrival would leave on some trip or 
other. Then would Jenny rave and flaunt, and after awhile 
she herself would depart. 

So, knowing so little and with her heart uninvolved, Thaisa 
could not say that her mother was a great woman. A pic¬ 
turesque one, yes — a whirlwind and one who disturbed, but 
that was all. 

So she remained silent, and Bobby laughed in triumph: 
‘ You don’t know what greatness is, Thaisa.’ 

Perhaps she didn’t. She knew what love was, and of that 
she gave prodigally. Bobby said, ‘ Come on upstairs and 
play battledore and shuttlecock.* 


The Third Weaver 


5 


And so they played that exciting game till dinner was 
served. At eight, Bobby, who was studying with a tutor, 
sought his own room to prepare his lessons, while Thaisa 
followed Grandmother into the drawing room. 

The evening was chilly after a day of fog and rain and a 
log burned in the fireplace. Beside the great tapestry hung 
portraits of old men with high collars, flanked by pictures of 
silken-clad old ladies — men and women, who looked as 
though they had never been disturbed by the call of desire 
or sin. Pieces of faded damasks, carved woods pearl-inlaid, 
crystal chandeliers, a tall rosewood chair with a Swiss music 
box hidden beneath its seat made a room of soft lights and 
shadows, all entuned by time into one finished richness. 

Grandmother went to sit in a high, narrow chair that 
faced the fire while Thaisa seated herself on a stool beside 
her. Grandfather, nearby, glanced up from his book and 
cast a look of longing at Grandmother — Grandmother 
who, isolate and proud, did not notice. 

Grandmother, ice-bound, sitting there — never a look at 
the man who seemed so lonely. A continuing silence, till: 
‘ Thaisa, shall we read a while ? ’ 

‘ If you please, Grandmother.’ With her acute ear she 
caught even beneath such trite words, the lilt of pain that 
must always dwell with this remote, cold creature. How 
dreadful to be like that! Would she too perhaps — in that 
fair land to which apparently she was traveling, the land 
of Grown People— be shut away from warmth and 
beauty? . . . 

She shivered in apprehension, and Grandmother caught 
her to her, held her and at that moment Richard came in, 


6 


The Third Weaver 


aglow as always. Thaisa ran to him — was lifted high. 
Afterwards, as Grandmother left the room, she stayed in his 
arms as he sat in the rosewood chair that tinkled music. 
Outside it was raining again. Thaisa could hear the soft 
beat of the drops against the window panes. But the crimson 
curtains were drawn, and here in Richard’s arms, beside the 
fire, with the soft voices going on, she felt secure, at peace. 

She thought of Richard’s soul — that part of one so mys¬ 
terious. Where was it ? Did it hang pendulum-like in his 
body, against which with such joy she leaned ? 

Suppose it were like a purple balloon that could be in¬ 
flated, deflated. In the kitchen she had watched Maggie 
put barm into flour to make the bread rise. Something like 
the barm was the breath. How far away Richard’s voice 
sounded, but how beautiful he was. How she loved him! 
A different love from that which she gave Grandmother or 
Grandfather, or this mother, Jennie Worthington, whom she 
so seldom saw. How many, many kinds of love there were 
in the world. She loved Father more, Oh, much more than 
she loved God. Well, why not ? God was a giant cut off at 
the waist and sitting on a marble slab, passing judg¬ 
ments. . . . One could not love such a figure — so distant, 
so majestic. 

The voices went on. 

‘ Have you seen Jenny lately, Richard ? ’ Grandfather 
asked. 

‘ A few days ago. She’ll come back, if we promise to 
show no more airs.’ 

‘ We’re the aggressors then? ’ 

‘ She claims so.’ 


The Third Weaver 7 

‘ Your wife has temperament, I take it.’ 

‘ I’m not the domestic, stay-put sort, I suppose, that Jenny 
would like. Undoubtedly I asked too much of her in ex¬ 
pecting her to adapt herself to a new kind of life.’ 

‘ No use regretting the past now, Richard, my son. You’re 
both young. You can always start afresh.’ 

‘ Seemingly in all the trials I fail; something happens to 
set Jenny off.’ 

He hesitated. 4 . . . Father, I’ve thought of America — 
some day — new scenes — new viewpoints.’ 

4 I’d be sorry to see you go, my son. . . .’ 

Grandmother entered again. Immediately Grandfather 
rose; Father more slowly. 4 Richard,’ said Grandmother, 
4 Thaisa should have been in bed an hour ago.’ 

4 I’m sorry. But she was so quiet — like a little mouse.’ 

Thaisa went to Grandmother, took her extended hand. 
As she neared Grandfather she paused, but he did not see 
her. His eyes were fixed on Grandmother with a strange 
bitterness. Was he going to cry? 4 Oh, Grandfather,’ 
Thaisa cried and ran to kiss him. But her kiss did not 
heal — that she saw. 


2 

In a casual manner, Jenny Worthington came on one of 
her 4 visits.’ Grandmother, with some injunctions, sent 
Thaisa into the library, and there was Jenny seated near the 
long east window. She looked very sweet, clad in a plain 
grey cashmere dress, with her black hair drawn smoothly 
back and caught in the nape of her neck. Her eyes were 


8 


The Third Weaver 


calm, but in some deep part Thaisa knew the possibility of a 
quick-springing mood that would make those same eyes 
blaze. 

Jenny turned, exclaimed: ‘Thaisa! Eh, but tha’ve 
grown! ’ 

Thaisa advanced, curtesyed. ‘ I am glad to see you, 
Mother,’ she said, stumbling over the unaccustomed word, 
but remembering Grandmother’s admonitions. ‘Shall we 
have the pleasure of a long stay this time ? ’ 

Jenny stared, did not answer, and Bobby ran in, announc¬ 
ing that a letter had come, calling him back home to 
America. 

‘ Where I wish I were goin’,’ said Jenny quickly and gave 
a quick, distasteful look about her. Here she must curb 
everything — accent, rich color, life itself. 

‘ Don’t you like it here, Mother ? ’ Thaisa asked as Bobby 
went away. ‘ Is that why you don’t come often ? ’ 

‘ Like it! Well, what matters? Old Worthington gam¬ 
bling. . . . This narrow gathering’ll have a wide scatterin’, 
let me tell you.’ 

Thaisa was puzzled. ‘ I love it here.’ 

‘ Yes, you would. You belong, by the way you look — 
and you my own child.’ 

Thaisa felt the sudden resentment. She stood, not know¬ 
ing what to say. Then all at once, through the velvet 
hangings came Richard, debonair, smiling, wholly unem¬ 
barrassed, it seemed; and immediately Jenny had quite for¬ 
gotten her daughter. And there had been tenseness in 
the room—incomprehensible forces that reached out and 
frightened. 


The Third Weaver 


9 


But Richard was very courteous to his wife. They sat to¬ 
gether at the table in the dining room, with its dark woods 
and deep velvet carpet; and the children, Thaisa and Bobby, 
gazed curiously and said little, because all the elders were 
so quiet. 

Afterwards, in a flash of good humor, and with one of the 
impulses that led him, Richard suggested a holiday jaunt for 
Jenny, Thaisa and himself. 

Jenny, somewhat subdued after the silent meal, was at 
once gay and happy. 

‘Tomorrow? ’ she asked, like a child. 

‘ Tomorrow,’ Richard agreed. 

‘ New Brighton ? ’ 

But not New Brighton for Richard. Still, when he saw 
Jenny’s disappointment, he consented. 

Thaisa always remembered this holiday, because in New 
Brighton, after they had finished their crumpets at an inn, 
they started to walk down the street, Jenny’s hand nestling 
in the crook of Richard’s arm. Jenny looked at Richard 
worshipfully, and something latent, of swift piercing quality, 
stirred in the child. 

And then they met some one who spoiled the 
day — a large man, with a small woman hanging to his 
arm. This man Jenny tried to avoid. But he was not 
easily to be put aside. He turned to Thaisa, and cried, 
‘Hey there, Thaisa, dost remember thy Grandfeyther 
Evans ?’ 

Just as Thaisa started to smile courteously, Richard pulled 
her forward. But Grandfeyther Evans, nothing daunted, 
pushed on also. ‘Na then, Son-in-law Worthington,’ he 


IO 


The Third Weaver 


cried, ‘ tha munna be so unpolite. This buxom lass be my 
bride; shake ’ands.’ 

No one answered. 

‘ Jenny, my girl,’ Grandfeyther Evans continued, ‘ tha’rt 
standing there frettin’ the skin off thy teeth because of this 
meetin’. Be tha ashamed of thy own feyther ? ’ 

‘ Not of my feyther,’ returned Jenny, the pink coming up 
to her eyes, ‘but I’m ashamed of the way thee carries on 
about tha frequent marriages.’ 

‘ Come along,’ said Richard. He was very angry — that 
could be seen. The bride let fall a small package and stooped 
to recover it. With an adroit movement, Grandfeyther 
Evans tumbled her over. Quickly she turned upon him, 
fury lighting her eyes. Her mouth moved, but only a 
sibilant whisper came from between her lips. 

‘What’s tha sayin’? I don’t get thee! ’ he repeated, cup¬ 
ping his ear and doubling up with laughter at her futile rage. 

‘ There now, Son-in-law Worthington, dost know a clev¬ 
erer trick than that ? ’ he asked. ‘ After three talkative 
women, to wed one that can’t speak above a whisper — a 
woman with as quick a temper as tha please, an’ who can’t 
make ’erself ’eard! Canst imagine the joy to be got out o’ 
such a situation ? ’ 

‘ I can imagine nothing coarser than your behavior,’ 
Richard returned in an icy voice. ‘ Come along,’ he com¬ 
manded his own. 

‘ Yes, go thee along, Little Princess,’ Grandfeyther Evans 
urged, the tears of mirth suddenly drying in his eyes, ‘ and 
learn from thy feyther’s people to be a worthless snob.’ 

Thaisa stood perfectly still. ‘ But remember, my pretty 


The Third Weaver 


ii 


wench,’ he continued, ‘thy mither’s mither sold kerchiefs 
off Nottingham Mill Stones when I took up with her; so 
ne’er let thy pride run away with thee.’ 

Richard hurried her forward. But they could not, it 
seemed, elude that ringing voice. ‘ And remember tha this, 
too. If thy feyther’s people thought it a disgrace to have 
my daughter wed into their fambly, I thought it no less a 
disgrace to take the ne’er-do-weel into mine.’ 

After that the day was spoiled irrevocably. ‘ I knew 
something frightful would happen,’ Richard commented, 
‘ when we went to that impossible place.’ 

Jenny stood perfectly still. ‘ Na see tha here, Richard 
Worthington, keep tha airs to thasel’. When it comes down 
to it, tha’rt not so much.’ Her accent, which she tried so 
hard to subdue, came out thickly. 

Richard strode on, holding Thaisa’s hand. But neither 
one could escape Jenny’s voice. No matter how fast they 
walked, her voice reached them, going on and on. Thaisa 
felt drowned in words; they beat into her, shut down on her 
own forces. She felt she must scream — but instead she 
went on with the tide. 


3 

And Jenny kept right on talking. For days, it seemed to 
Thaisa, the flood poured. During this time the little girl 
learned a great deal. Nothing, it seemed, had ever pleased 
Jenny. She had been persuaded to give Thaisa up as a baby 
to this frozen grandmother. Thaisa, that outlandish name 
that Richard had chosen out of a man named Shakespeare. 


12 


The Third Weaver 


She had come to the Victoria Park house for a while, but it 
was soft, cold smiles, and move your fork this way, and turn 
your head that way. And Richard — off on a trip every 
other week, when he should have stayed close by her side. 

. . . And in a way that hurt Thaisa: ‘Thaisa, you re¬ 
member your Grandfeyther Evans in New Brighton, t’other 
day ? ” 

4 Yes, oh, yes.’ 

4 He said summat about ma mither — about my mother. 
Well, don’t remember that. It’s not worth your while. I’ll 
tell you. There was my brother, a brave, high-spirited lad 
who used to write bits of verse; he died after a bout in a 
public house, but given his chance he’d a been somebody; 
and his blood too is in your veins. . . 

4 I’ll remember, Mother. . . 


4 

And then all at once Jenny was gone; and school com¬ 
menced with Miss Murdock, that tall, thin lady, head of the 
private school for young gentlewomen. She seemed cold, 
though good, but one day she pressed Thaisa to her. It 
gave Thaisa a shock to feel the life of the body she touched. 
She had thought Miss Murdock a long, flexible rod beneath 
the plain silk dresses. But there was a heart beating in 
rhythm, and yielding softness. 

Then in school holidays — a trip with Richard to Ireland. 
In Dublin they changed for a vehicle driven by a funny 
little Irishman who took them out to the farm lands. Sum¬ 
mer — and in the fields peasants bobbed and smiled. Rich- 


The Third Weaver 


13 


ard took off his hat. They came to a clear, wind-swept place 
where he seemed to belong as a part of the scenery. The 
breezes blew his hair so that he looked wild, like a wood 
creature. They were quite alone, and at once he threw back 
his head and began to sing some wild, lusty song. 

She felt a deep kinship with him, so that she too wanted 
expression. One step she took, then another. The wind on 
her cheek whipped her to a high exhilaration and with head 
up, hands outstretched to the heavens, she danced with joy¬ 
ous freedom, gay laughter coming from between her parted 
lips. 

‘ Exquisite,’ said Richard as she came to pause beside him. 
‘ What are you trying to say, Thaisa ? * 

‘ Oh, Father, I just want to give something, make a present 
to the world.’ 

He stared at her then. ‘. . . Is that it — is that it ? ’ he 
murmured. ‘Yes, that’s your metier —that will have to 
happen.’ And on a very serious note, for Richard: ‘We’ll 
have to leave you alone, quite alone, I can see that. . . 

But he grew gay again, and began to talk to her in a way 
that made her know he wanted her to do something. ‘ A 
mother,’ he said, ‘ is a very precious thing, Thaisa — some 
one to be cherished all one’s life.’ 

That little voice saying that he was asking something of 
her. \ . . I always think of a picture that hangs in the 
famous Louvre Conservatory in France,’ he continued, ‘a 
woman holding her babe, that’s all, but such beauty in her 
expression, quite breath-taking.’ 

She knew at once what he meant. And he had the power 
to make you perform what he could only feel. She meant 


14 


The Third Weaver 


to be very, very good to Jenny, her mother, when next she 
saw her. But she was not so happy now; some weight was 
upon her, dragging her down. She had felt so free and 
light there when she danced on the moors, and then the 
weight had fallen. 

He knew something had damped her spirit. ‘ I’ll tell you, 
Thaisa,’ he began. 4 It will be jolly to write some little plays 
and we’ll act them out at home on the top floor; pantomimes 
too, we’ll do behind a sheet.’ 

In an instant, joy flooded her. He knew how she liked to 
act. ‘ Oh, Father,’ she cried, ‘ I love you so. . . .’ 

5 

To keep Father’s image shining and intact occupied her 
heart a great deal after that; for he never did get to writing 
the little play, as he had promised. She would not remind 
him, but she followed him about, waiting. After a time, 
she knew he had forgotten. 

But soon there came dire news that put everything else 
aside. Grandmother told her that she was to go to live with 
Mother — for a time, anyway. 

‘ Away from you, Grandmother ? ’ 

‘ Yes, Thaisa, but I shall come often to see you.’ 

No use crying. ... So it came about that, one day, 
Grandmother dressed her in a pink cotton frock with forget- 
me-not sprigs, and a leghorn hat trimmed with a black 
velvet band. With a little bag at their feet, they were 
whirled away in a cab out through Alexander Park. 

In Owen’s Court the cab stopped. ‘Here we are,’ said 


The Third Weaver 


15 

Grandmother. They faced a little house with green shut¬ 
ters — very smug it seemed — set back from the street. 

Grandfeyther Evans answered the knock on the door. At 
once he was conciliatory to Grandmother. Thaisa felt that 
he was awed by her lace bonnet and silk-fringed dolman. 
He led the way into the parlor, murmuring that Jenny would 
be in presently, since she had stayed at home that day 
from work. 

Thaisa stood, looking about. There was a dented piano 
whose yellow keys were like slabs of custard pie; green plush 
chairs with black and white antimacassars on their backs; 
two what-nots crowded with shells marked ‘Blackpool,’ 
‘New Brighton,’ ‘Hardwick Green’; a carpet that con¬ 
fused by its brilliant colors; and one outstanding picture 
— among many others — of Christ ascending on clouds 
into heaven. 

Grandfeyther Evans evidently followed his usual pro¬ 
cedure regarding this picture, for it seemed as though he 
were repeating a formula: 

‘ My first wife, Jenny’s mother, were a Catholic, ma’am, 
an’ I leave the picture hung in deference to ’er memory. I 
hope tha don’t mind, seeing tha’rt a Protestant.’ 

Thaisa felt Grandmother quiver as they stood close. She 
herself did not like this blarneying Grandfeyther Evans; 
infinitely she preferred the one of New Brighton, with blus¬ 
tering mien and picturesque phrases. Now, he was like a 
field mouse. 

‘ If I might see your daughter? ’ Grandmother murmured. 

Grandfeyther disappeared, and in a moment Jenny en¬ 
tered alone. 


The Third Weaver 


i 6 

Jenny seemed to fit in better in this b latant room than in 
Grandmother’s richly subdued environment. She wore a 
dress with a little bustle, and her hair came down in a 
straight bang, close to her eyes. She stood straight and far 
away, offering no word. So Grandmother said, ‘ As we 
agreed, I’ve brought the child to you.’ 

‘ Why didn’t Richard come himself ? * 

‘ He thought you and Thaisa might begin better if he were 
out of it. Later he will come, if he can.’ 

Jenny put out a hand and drew Thaisa to her, but her 
triumphant gaze fell before Grandmother’s level eyes. It 
was as though she had nothing with which to meet some 
exquisite quality in the other; all her tools were too blunt. 

‘ I would advise Thaisa’s return next September to Miss 
Murdock’s very excellent school, where the child is doing 
well; then there are her music and languages. Of course, 
you can discuss these matters with Richard.’ 

‘ Oh, aye,’ said Jenny sharply. 

‘ And then there’s her reading to be directed. I’ll send you 
a list of things.’ 

Jenny barely nodded now, but when Grandmother had 
gone, after Thaisa’s despairing clinging, Jenny began at 
once: ‘Private schools and what-not! An’ that old pillar 
of ice! Do you know what I were doing at nine? . . . 
Well, I were workin’ in a shirt factory; Father were always 
in his cups in those days, and Mother had to have help. Yes, 
I were turnin’ up hems on shirts. The foreman used to lift 
me up in the mornin’ on to the long table and I’d turn hems 
until noon, and then he’d lift me down to eat; an’ then up 
again for the afternoon. 


The Third Weaver 


i 7 


*• . . Well, come Along; I don’t expect you to understand; 
supper’s about ready.’ 

Thaisa was not hungry; her heart ached and yearned for 
the known things. Grandfeyther Evans pressed sausage 
rolls with rich pork gravy upon her. . . They’ll make hair 
grow on thy chest, Thaisy,’ he told her. 

Jenny intervened: ‘Tha should see the dainties she gets 
at the Worthingtons’! ’ Rising, she went into the scullery, 
and returned with a glass of milk and a plate of jam 
sandwiches. 

Afterwards Grandfeyther Evans tried to amuse her by 
making a little engine of his own invention puff round and 
round on the parlor floor. He spoke of guineas; he would 
make many if he could sell something he had patented on 
his engine. 

‘Father has many guineas,’ Thaisa told him. ‘He col¬ 
lects them from the tenants in Ireland and Wales.’ 

‘ Aye, but he gets them for naught he hisself ha’ done, so 
he gives liberally; easy enough to gi’ away money when thee 
’aven’t sweat for it. Mind thee this, my proud wench, the 
Lord ne’er meant for one man to work in muck and t’other 
to put his yand out for guineas, and naught in return.’ 

‘ I wish everybody could be even.’ 

‘And there tha’rt fine and right, and I’m surprised a 
Worthington should come to that view. Well, some day 
we’ll take from them that ha’ too much and give to them 
that ha’ too little.’ 

‘ But I wouldn’t feel happy just because I had as much 
money as you have.’ 

‘ Because thee knows naught o’ the use of money; but re- 


i8 


The Third Weaver 


member this all thy days: Thy feyther’s not one bit better 
than thy Grandfeyther Evans.’ 

‘ I think he must be; he makes people happy.’ 

‘ How then ? ’ 

‘ He makes me happy when he plays the organ and sings.’ 

‘ Little then does it take to make thee happy. An’ what 
does thy fine feyther do in this world ? ’ 

‘ He recites beautiful poetry. And then he cares for a lot 
of little yellow birds in a glass house.’ 

‘ Eh, ma word! A bird fancier — good substantial work 
for a grown man! And come you were starvin’, my gay lass, 
he couldna make a farthing.’ 

‘ But I like to hear my father’s music, and when he stands 
on a moor in Ireland, with the wind ruffling his hair, I want 
to dance and fly.’ 

‘ Now tha go right on feelin’ that way, but I hope tha’ll 
always ha’ a full belly. Trouble is, Thaisy, tha’ll always put 
too much stress on what is pretty and what makes tha happy; 
and tha’ll know many a hard knock before tha doesna give 
a farthin’ what happens to thaseP. . . .’ He paused. ‘ To 
know that life be all brass and tinsel.’ 

Jenny entered and packed him off to his night work in the 
glass factory. Then she took Thaisa upstairs to bed. When 
she undressed the child, she exclaimed over the small petti¬ 
coats, exquisitely embroidered; murmured above the shining 
hair that Grandmother brushed so lovingly night and morn¬ 
ing. ‘ They’ve spoiled tha for me, that’s all,’ she cried. And 
then: ‘Whatever will I do with thee if tha doesna bring 
him here to me ? ’ 


The Third Weaver 


19 


6 

Jenny worked days in the Lancaster Cotton Mills; Mary 
Ann, Grandfeyther’s wife, was busy all day between the 
kitchen and the scullery. Books hadn’t come from Grand¬ 
mother. Long, lonely days. 

But some days Jenny stayed home. And she sang. Once: 

‘For she knows that o’er the Jasper sea, 

They sail together, the father and he . . . 

They sail together, the father and he . . 

‘ Mother, where is the Jasper sea ? * 

‘ Eh, it’s a great sea flowin’ in heaven; sparklin’ ’tis and of 
rare colors, and it gives off a scent richer than all the flowers 
on earth.’ 

‘ Oh, Mother, I’d like to sail on that Jasper sea.’ 

‘Well, tha’ll not, I’ll tell thee that!’ And suddenly 
Jenny’s arms were about Thaisa with a passion that hurt 
the child. ‘ Ne’er thee say that wish again, note me ? ’ 

Then seeing that she had frightened her daughter, she 
asked, ‘What dost thy grandmother do to amuse thee 
betimes ? ’ 

‘ She tells me stories; sometimes about when she was a 
Princess and she met the Prince at the Queen’s Ball.’ 

‘ Princess, Princess, look sharp! ’ 

‘ Oh, not really a Princess. Just Grandmother when she 
met Grandfather at the ball. But it is beautiful.’ And she 
finished, ‘ So they fell in love and were happy ever after.’ 


20 


The Third Weaver 


‘ Well, na then, that’s good. And were happy ever after, 
and not a word spoken by her to him since Richard were a 
small lad! Still in her own way, she got the upper hand; 
he’s where she wants him.’ Jenny paused in speculation. 
‘ Well, that’s ’er way! ’ She caught herself sharply with a 
quick glance at Thaisa. ‘ Now I’ll tell a tale of thy father 
and me, as romantic a tale as ever was. . . . 

‘ One night was I not dancin’ in a big hall in Billingslea 
Lane when the feather in my new hat caught flame from a 
gas jet? ... I’d seen in the doorway a pair of young bucks 
going the round of the cheap places for their fun. Well, 
one of them — tall he were with dark eyes and curly hair — 
sprang forward and with his bare hands put out the fire. 

‘ And there we stood with t’ sorry feather burned down 
to its stalk and starin’ at one another. Aye, yes, we were 
drawn. And so ’twas with Richard and me. And ’twas but 
a month before we were wed.’ 

‘ Oh, Mother, in shining white, like Grandmother, walk¬ 
ing under crossed swords ? * 

4 Swords, is it ? I’ve had enough o’ those since. No, ’twas 
with a dozen others standing in a row, and Parson going 
down the line saying: “ Do you take this man? Do you? 
Do you ? ” Eh, but it was wonderful too.’ 

Jenny ceased and sat staring before her. Her mind was 
working busily. Suddenly she began, words pouring out. 
‘ Well, now I’m goin’ to take thee away — I’ll scare them 
good and plenty — to a little place near Blackpool. I’ll have 
them running about.’ 

Thaisa turned white. * Oh, Mother, don’t take me away 
from where Grandmother lives. Don’t, Mother! ’ 


21 


The Third Weaver 

Jenny turned swiftly on her with an avalanche of words 
that beat the child down. She could not move away, but 
stood there, just being pelted. She felt inert under this force 
and knew only that she would have to obey. ‘ I’ll have him 
under my thumb,’ Jenny went on. ‘ He is my ’usband all 
legal and right, and I’ll hold him.’ She put her hand on 
Thaisa’s small shoulder. ‘ Tha should feel good to help tha 
mother,’ she said. ‘They set such store by thee; now let 
them ache because tha’ll be gone.” 

A little pawn; Thaisa felt helpless while the scalding tears 
filled her eyes. 


7 

But before Jenny could perfect her plans, a messenger 
came, giving word of Grandmother’s illness, and Thaisa was 
returned to the old home. 

Grandmother recovered and moved about, though very 
slowly, in her silken gowns with the rare lace at throat and 
sleeves. Grandfather too flitted in and out, dark and morose. 

Richard went away to Scotland and Ireland. He returned, 
brown and handsome as a young god, with no cares or 
weights on his shoulders. 

Grandmother, driven in a hired carriage, called for Thaisa 
one day at Miss Murdock’s school. They went to Miss Jones’s, 
the herbalist’s, where they bought a package of marsh¬ 
mallow and raspberry leaves. Then from a cocoanut barrel, 
Miss Jones weighed out five snow ounces on the fascinating 
scales and added a few drops of rosemary and lavender oil — 
the unguent for Thaisa’s hair. 


22 


The Third Weaver 


Miss Jones said, ‘ The little girl is growing fast, and very 
like you, Mrs. Worthington.’ 

‘ Do you think so ? ’ For some reason, whenever anyone 
made this observation, Grandmother looked very pleased. 

From Miss Jones’s they went to Mrs. Howe’s shop, rooted 
in a dark, unfrequented street. In through a great, carved 
door they entered, and presently the interior with its many, 
many treasures came clear. And a sign done in black letters 
with crisp sparkle over them. The sign read: 

Not only does Mrs . Howe lend money in a genteel way to 
those in immediate stress, hut she \eeps always on hand a 
collection of wondrous wares gathered from every clime . 

Grandmother talked in low tones to Mrs. Howe, who 
came forward in her stiff, black alpaca dress. Then in a 
few moments they left, but as they sat in the carriage, Thaisa 
looked up and missed some beauty. ‘ Oh, Grandmother,’ 
she cried, ‘ you’ve lost your brooch! ’ 

But Grandmother was not startled, though the wondrous 
guinea-gold brooch with its dull topaz stone and soft pink 
pearls was not at her throat where always Thaisa had seen it. 

After this, events broke swiftly, and one day, Thaisa saw 
the dismantling of the old home. Men and women came 
crowding about Chippendale tables, silken draperies, golden 
clocks. They clustered wonderingly about carved panels 
and glowing brasses, and one woman bent and touched the 
pearl-inlaid chair. Its hidden music box tinkled out a 
gay tune. 

Some one lifted down the exquisite tapestry, and Thaisa 
cried out. She could not endure the sacrilege of seeing that 
courageous figure of the dancing youth pulled to the ground. 


The Third Weaver 


23 


But the auctioneer asked for a bid on a piece of work far 
famed. And as he did so, Grandmother’s head fell back. 
Richard lifted the slight figure and carried her from the 
room, Thaisa following after. 

She sat on the stairs outside Grandmother’s room, moving 
aside as the hurriedly summoned doctor passed her. She 
thought again of the tapestry downstairs and felt a stab. . . . 
All kinds of fancies filled her. . . . 

Some noisy person downstairs would take the tapestry 
away from its place and in some manner distort its pattern. 
Somewhere, it would be hung where no light would shine 
upon it to bring out its rich colors, reveal its many intricate 
blocks and stitchings — unable so to reveal its meaning. 

You took your strands and wove a bit here — a bit there — 
Grandmother’s words. . . . She looked up. Richard was 
coming from the quiet room, and on his face lay tears. 


PART TWO 


jS VERYTHING she loved had been left behind. Grand¬ 
father very quickly had followed Grandmother into her 
silence. On an October day Thaisa stood beside her father 
on the upper deck of a vessel that was headed toward 
America. She thought of England and what lay behind. 
Her eyes blurred. 

But Richard was, as always, looking toward a new land. 
With a quick gesture he lifted her and held her against his 
breast. ‘ The golden gates are opening,’ he cried. Such was 
his faith. 

Richard talked ardently of America. ‘ But are the streets 
really paved with gold ? ’ Thaisa asked, as they tramped 
the decks. 

‘No — I believe not.’ But she got the impression that 
in his deepest heart he really believed they were paved 
with gold. 

Jenny, on the contrary, had a morbid feeling that it had 
been a foolish procedure, after all, to tear up all roots and 
start anew. ‘ When thy father came to me and asked me 
to go to America with him, I couldna say him nay,’ she said 
to Thaisa. ‘ But he has no trade, and we cannot live on 
naught.’ 

This economic question didn’t disturb Thaisa as other 
questions disturbed her. Would America accept them? 
Would Aunt Sarah and Uncle Henry think her father sin- 


24 



The Third Weaver 


25 


ful as Bobby once had intimated, because he did not 
work ? 

‘ It’ll be pretty well up to me to keep the pot boilin’,’ Jenny 
concluded. 

‘ But I can help, can’t I, Mother ? ’ 

‘ Thy feyther’ll insist on a fine education for thee, seeing 
where’er tha’ll be, tha’rt still a Worthington,’ said Jenny 
keenly. 

But there were times when Jenny was just as buoyantly 
hopeful as ever was Richard. ‘ And we’ll be all together, 
not dragged apart,’ she confided one day. ‘ There’ll be no 
quality to think I’m not fit to raise my own daughter.’ 

A flush mounted to Thaisa’s eyes. ‘Grandmother was 
beautiful; besides you gave me away in the beginning.’ And 
after a silence: ‘ She told me often that I must love you; you 
are my mother, she said.’ 

‘Aye, that I be right enough; and in America I’ll trick 
thee out in gay ribbons and twist up thy hair.’ 

‘ And we’ll be good friends, Mother ? ’ A yearning was 
within her, some ache that the thought of gay ribbons and 
twisted hair somehow did not satisfy. 

‘ Be a good lass and show none o’ tha airs, and we’ll be 
good enough friends, I’ll warrant.’ 

‘ In America,’ Richard declared, ‘ there’s Democracy.’ 

‘ What’s that, Father? ’ 

‘ That everybody’s on an equality.’ 

‘ Will people all be happy and beautiful if they’re equal ? ’ 

‘ Democracy’s one of America’s strengths,’ he answered, 
going beyond her. 


2 6 


The Third Weaver 


2 

Richard held her high in his arms one bright day so she 
might see the Statue of Liberty, a great figure with the 
beckoning torch held in outstretched, welcoming hand. 

‘Freedom!’ Richard murmured, and Jenny, standing 
near, was awed. 

‘ Dost yon statue mean a welcome to all ? ’ she asked. 

‘ To all,’ Richard responded. He seemed lifted out of him¬ 
self. 

And then — New York, and Uncle Henry’s home on 
Twenty-eighth Street. Bobby, Thaisa thought, was glad to 
see her, but he was reticent. Uncle Henry she liked at once. 
He was Richard’s brother, but he was not like Richard. Still 
there was a look in his tired eyes, at once kindly and spar¬ 
kling, that seemed to struggle up through a mist. 

Aunt Sarah gave the impression of a never-ceasing activity. 
Her thin, flat figure, clad in a starched gingham apron dress, 
moved in quick jerks; her eyes eternally roamed from one 
object to another, and nothing ever escaped her vigilant 
attention. 

Upon their arrival at the immaculate flat, Aunt Sarah at 
once indicated a room to the left toward which Jenny and 
Thaisa moved automatically. This long, very thin drum 
major must be obeyed. 

Jenny and Aunt Sarah from the first seemed natural ene¬ 
mies. Yet there were times when they met in the free¬ 
masonry of woman talk. Thaisa, as she sewed on a piece 
of unbleached muslin which Aunt Sarah had early produced 



The Third Weaver 


27 


for ‘ learning on,’ sometimes wondered what so many words 
were all about, and why suddenly the two seemed so friendly. 
When they talked of Grandmother, for instance. . . . 

‘ I remember well,’ from Aunt Sarah, ‘ before your time, 
Jenny, on one of my visits there, how she looked in her fine 
silks, with her proud face.’ 

‘ Proud she was.’ 

‘ Do you think she still cared for him P ’ 

‘ Cared! I think she worshiped him in her own touch- 
me-not way,’ Jenny returned sagaciously. ‘ She just lived on 
the long, deep looks he passed at her.’ 

‘ Tut, tut! ’ from Aunt Sarah, ‘ that’s one way of holding 
on to your man. Still, there was that affair with the actress; 
she never forgave that.’ 

‘Maybe it wasn’t forgiveness; maybe she was all frost. 
Just wanted to stop being familiar with him.’ 

‘Now Jenny! ’ 

‘ What now! What now! ’ 

The two women went on talking, while Thaisa set the tiny 
stitches in the horrid seam. 

And Richard talked: ‘I want first,’ he said, ‘to absorb 
the spirit of America, and then I can give my best serv¬ 
ices.’ He looked as though he were flying, Thaisa thought 
worshipfully. 

‘ The spirit of America is independence,’ Aunt Sarah re¬ 
turned swiftly, ‘ to make money enough for self-respect.’ 

Richard went white. ‘ Then it’s the soul of America I 
want to find.’ 

After a time he took out his first papers; he was well on 
the way to becoming a citizen of the United States. Thaisa 


28 


The Third Weaver 


never knew whether he completed his citizenship. She had, 
by now, many problems of her own. 

There was school where the children taunted her because 
of her clothes and her different way of speaking. She was 
very unhappy, and at this crisis she longed for her father. 

She approached him one night, but he was sunk in some 
mood strange to him; America’s coldness had hurt him 
more than any experience in his life. He looked at Thaisa, 
not seeing her, not realizing the acuteness of her desire for 
his tender understanding. She could not voice her deep 
needs, not only the need to receive, but the necessity for some 
one — this father most passionately — upon whom to pour 
her love. But he did not see her near him. 

The emptiness, instead of lifting, grew. One morning in 
school when she was reciting, she sat down amidst a sound 
of laughter. She knew she was different, but the blood 
rushed to her face. Suddenly she felt the impossibility of 
remaining. She stood up in her place, stared about a 
moment, and ran out of the room. As she went, a conscious¬ 
ness came to her of the upturned, surprised eyes of the chil¬ 
dren, the arrested, indecisive expression on the teacher’s face. 
But she did not pause. 

Downstairs, in the yard to the left, she saw Bobby. It was 
recess for his class, and he was standing near a group of boys. 
Instinctively she ran toward him and cried out, ‘Bobby! 
Bobby!’ 

He turned, and she saw his face crimson. She did not 
realize how terrible it was of her to cry out, to go to him and 
touch him, ask for his sympathetic understanding. For his 
fellows were all about him, utterly astonished at this female 


The Third Weaver 


29 


creature who was guilty, in the first place, of lese-majesty in 
appearing on the boys’ side, and who also came weeping for 
succor at the hands of one of their hard-hearted selves. 

No, she did not realize. Only, that as her hand reached 
out to Bobby, he moved away. 

‘ This isn’t your side,’ he told her. 

‘ Bobby, you know me. I’m Thaisa! ’ 

‘ How’d she get on to my name ? ’ he turned to ask his 
companions, and moved off. 

He had denied her, then! For a moment she stood, quite 
unable to move. Pretended not to know her! 

She watched the group go by, each boy laughing and 
gesticulating, and after a time, she too turned. 

Out in the street. New York! Formidable place! Man¬ 
chester had been bustling, commercial, but there she had 
gone under the benign protection of those who loved her, 
so that the city seemed friendly and warm instead of solidly 
menacing. 

Well, America, New York, did not want them — Father, 
Mother, Thaisa. And Father, poor Father, wanted to give 
his all. But he was more loyal to America than America to 
him. America did not want him. No one wanted them, 
really. A deep pang shook her again at thought of Bobby’s 
denial. 

She crossed Sixth Avenue, came to a narrow side street. 
At length she found a small park, and entering, sank down 
upon a bench. She was quite alone in this place. Spring, 
and the trees just beginning to bud. They swayed with a 
crooning sound. But she was in a cold, enemy world. Where 
was harmony and where happiness ? 


3° 


The Third Weaver 


Again there came upon her a tremendous desire for her 
father. Memories flooded her. . . . His swift moods; his 
head uplifted to all the winds; his poetry. . . . Suddenly 
she put her head down on her knees and let the tears flow. 
A morsel of a thing, cast out upon the world. 

Then she lifted her head, and before her there stood a 
man who had not been in the park before. He moved a step 
closer, and she saw that he was young. He wore no cap and 
the soft wind blew his hair about his brow. She saw that this 
hair was very black, but that on the left side there lay a lock 
of white, like a wing. She thought he was like the figure 
in the tapestry, the dancing youth. 

Suddenly he brought his far gaze to her, and his lips 
parted in a smile. He said, 4 I’ve been here some time, but 
you didn’t notice me. Can you tell me the trouble ? ’ 

‘ I’m not happy,’ she said. 

‘ Ah, a very grave malady.’ 

* It’s that people aren’t kind to one another.’ 

‘ No, they’re not.’ 

His eyes wandered again to something he seemed to hope 
for in some far land. ‘ Some day, a new voice shall come cry¬ 
ing in the wilderness,’ he said solemnly. ‘ It will teach us 
of the brotherhood of man.’ 

She leaned forward. ‘ Oh,’ she cried,' are you Jesus come 
again? 9 

Thoroughly startled, he looked at her; then he sat down 
and put his arms about her. As she felt his sympathy, she 
yielded herself completely. The loneliness and sadness in 
a measure vanished. 

‘ It am just an ordinary mortal, one Peter Dagmar.’ 


The Third Weaver 


3i 


4 Peter, then, a disciple.’ 

4 No, I’ll not have it. Just a poor man. You mustn’t go 
that way putting people on pedestals. They can’t stand it, 
and eventually it’ll break you. What’s your name ? ’ 

4 Thaisa Worthington.’ 

‘Thaisa— exquisite — and just for you. How old are 
you, Thaisa ? ’ 

4 Nearly eleven.’ 

‘And I’m twenty-three. Now tell me exactly what’s 
troubling you.’ 

So, as best she could, she told him of her longing for famil¬ 
iar things; the longing for a place in the universe; most of 
all the longing for happiness, because when she was happy 
she could see colors and beauty. 

4 An exquisite passion.’ She felt the tide of his under¬ 
standing flowing out to her, and she sat silent, but warmed 
through and through. 

4 But I suppose God just brought me across the ocean to 
meet you,’ she said, and lifted eyes of such faith that for a 
moment his own seemed blinded. 

3 

And then when she reached home, filled with a new 
essence of hope, Aunt Sarah confronted her with stern-lipped 
disapproval. 4 Your mother’s gone looking for you; your 
teacher said you’d run away.’ 

But that moment Jenny entered. She stood gazing at 
Thaisa with some new emotion manifest in her face. She 
was pale and her eyes were colorless, set against the dead 


3 * 


The Third Weaver 


black of the escaping hair beneath her bonnet. * Ah, there 
you are, Thaisa,’ she said at length. ‘I — I couldn’t find you, 
and I thought you’d been stolen.’ 

Then Jenny crumpled to the floor. 

Aunt Sarah was very cool and efficient. Her ministrations 
soon had Jenny sitting up, with eyes open. 4 I don’t know 
what you’re thinking of,’ she commented then, 4 married as 
you are to an improvident ne’er-do-well.’ 

4 Ah’ll thank thee,’ said Jenny, lapsing thickly into her 
accent, 4 to keep tha opinions to thasel’.’ 

4 Do control that awful way of speaking.’ Then relent¬ 
lessly: ‘What are you thinking of?* 

4 I’ve thought the Almighty knows what he wants.’ 

4 The Almighty has nothing to do with such cases,’ Aunt 
Sarah returned tartly. ‘I’ve managed, as you see, with 
only one.’ 

Jenny rose. 4 1 know your meaning. An’ I’ll let no grass 
grow under my feet to rid you of our burden.’ 

Thaisa followed Jenny into the bedroom. 4 If I hadna 
lost my wits over you,’ Jenny began, 4 the old schoolmistress 
wouldn’t have found out.’ 

4 Found out what, Mother ? ’ Thaisa sat down on the bed 
and took Jenny’s hand. She felt sorry, and as though this 
other were in great need of a friend. She wanted to pour 
herself out. 4 Tell me, Mother, and perhaps I can help.’ 

Jenny hesitated; then she chose her words carefully. 4 It’s 
this then, Thaisa; a wee bird has come tellin’ me that you 
may have a little brother some day.’ 

4 Oh, Mother, how wonderful, how beautiful! ’ 

4 Well there, your father doesn’t know whether to be glad 


The Third Weaver 


33 


or not, and yon schoolmistress makes me feel a sinner,’ said 
poor Jenny. ‘And ’ere are you dancin’ for pure joy; it 
makes me feel a bit good.’ 

And all at once Jenny was crying in Thaisa’s arms. And 
there rose in the small breast tides of passion to help. . . . 

4 

Her purest satisfaction Thaisa found in Peter; for Peter 
pursued the acquaintanceship begun in the small park. He 
came to fill her life, so that she scarcely missed Richard — a 
transformation subtle and mysterious. He awakened newer 
depths within her — a forcing of emotions. He wove him¬ 
self into her life, becoming part of her mental and spiritual 
equipment. 

Peter and Richard at once took to one another. Peter, 
young as he was, had roamed the world. His parents had 
died when he was a very young boy. Except for an aged 
aunt — now in San Francisco — who had reared him, Peter 
was absolutely alone. Two years in high school had been 
the extent of his formal education; but he had done much 
and varied reading and much traveling. There had been 
affiliation with a radical set and eventually a breaking away. 
Now he owned a tiny magazine and edited it from a base¬ 
ment room in Washington Place. 

Richard was entranced with this history. 


34 


The Third Weaver 


5 

Peter it was who inaugurated a Saturday morning walk, 
when he and Thaisa would ramble about the city and talk. 
He inspired and quickened her. All her days had shapes, 
and since Saturday was Peter’s day (he had asked her spe¬ 
cially to dedicate it to him) she was glad it was a great white 
ship on which he and she embarked and sailed the misty 
violet sea that was New York. Peter learned from her the 
shapes of the different days. 

‘ So this white ship day is mine for always, Thaisa ? ’ 

‘ Is it so important to you, Peter ? It is terribly important 
to me.’ 

‘ More important than anything else in my life,’ he told 
her gallantly. He went on: ‘ You’re not going to escape me, 
now that I’ve found you.’ And indeed she had no wish to 
escape him. He was more than the man Peter to her. He 
represented a savior, a vision, a lover and a father, a high 
figure in whom she put perfect trust. Peter, recognizing her 
adoration, was still unaware that he had come when she 
was empty, a little vessel tossed on life’s waves; too young 
to know her own needs but as old as the world in her dra¬ 
matic necessity for some one to worship. 

On the surface, she met Peter with a childish candor of 
love and admiration which he rather casually accepted, since 
he had his own life to live and was enjoying many experi¬ 
ences, romantic and practical. But in her heart she en¬ 
shrined him and endowed him with every great quality. 
He grew into her fiber, became her other identity. He was 


The Third Weaver 


35 


at once a reality and a dream to her. Perfect, even when at 
times he kept her waiting and sent no message. 

She told him one day that her family was leaving Aunt 
Sarah’s. He and she had been walking through Cen¬ 
tral Park. ‘ But I must go back now, Peter, and clean the 
silver.’ 

‘ I wish there weren’t any silver in the world,’ he answered 
as bitterly as even she, who disliked the task, could desire. 

‘ So do I. When I’m grown up, I’m never going to wash 
dishes or clean silver or sew long seams. You mustn’t ask 
me to, if ever I come to live with you, Peter.’ 

‘ Here, here, Thaisa, the Saturday ship’s careening. You 
quite threw me off my ballast. Do you think such an iri¬ 
descent jewel as you’re going to be would deign to live with 
such an old greybeard as I shall turn into? ’ 

‘Oh, Peter, you’ll never be a greybeard; just that one 
white lock. We’ll sing together and play, and there’ll be a 
lot of lovely little babies come to us.’ 

Peter, finding it necessary to attend to the ship, didn’t an¬ 
swer at once. But when he turned to her there was a deep, 
strange look in his face. ‘ I don’t see how a man takes a 
child — of his own — calmly. Oh, not the traditional senti¬ 
mental palaver, God forbid. Deeper than that; it’s the mar¬ 
vel of life coming through a poor, weak man.’ 

She stood staring at him, not understanding at all, except 
that he was intensely stirred. He saw that he had frightened 
her a little, that she had moved away from him, and a be¬ 
wildering fear grew in him. ‘ Thaisa, dear girl,’ he cried, 
‘ you won’t ever stop loving me, will you ? ’ 

She went white at the mere thought of such blasphemy. 


36 


The Third Weaver 


4 Peter,’ she cried, 4 1 shall always love you, just as I do now. 
You’re Peter-of-my-heart.’ 

He removed his cap, thrust it into his pocket. 4 Then we’ll 
exchange everlasting vows that we belong to one another. 
I’ll wait for you till you’re quite grown up.’ 

4 We exchange everlasting vows,’ she repeated solemnly, 
and put her hand into his. 4 I’m going to be awfully good 
while I’m growing up for you, Peter.’ 

She was never to forget that uplifted moment in the park. 
In some distant, great future she was to belong to Peter, and 
enter into a perfect circle with him alone. 

And a deep hunger, a hunger of which the young Peter 
was scarcely aware, made him for the moment as pure a 
romanticist as was Thaisa, giving him a faith that life would 
yield him his dreams. 

So he stood with her, glimpsing himself and his needs that 
were not yet wholly clear to him. 

6 

Peter took Richard in as assistant editor of the little maga¬ 
zine 4 The Beacon Ray.’ 

Jenny wasn’t well, and Thaisa was learning to be useful. 
They had moved to a little flat in Waverly Place. Aunt 
Sarah had been generous. She had given them some old 
furniture that she had had stored away. 

Jenny, however, wasn’t grateful for favors. 4 She’s that 
glad to see our backs, she’d give us anything,’ was her shrewd 
comment. 

Richard was busily happy in his new work with Peter, 


37 


The Third Weaver 

though there was little money in it. But he talked beauti¬ 
fully of ideals and again of the spirit of America. 

‘ Eh, dear me,’ Jenny answered one time, ‘ how high and 
mighty! But you’d better forget all that and take to pro¬ 
vidin’ for your family.’ 

Richard stopped talking. 

* Take a good job somewhere that’s full of labor and put 
away silly, foolish notions. Get down to brass tacks, man.’ 

Richard seized his hat and ran out. 

7 

But Jenny was in the main happier than ever before. 
Young too and pretty. She never seemed to grow accus¬ 
tomed to Richard’s coming home at night, going away 
again in the morning — the family routine. This was satis¬ 
faction, even though she did complain of money lack. Some¬ 
times now she sang as she had back there in Grandfeyther 
Evans’ home. Something in Thaisa answered to the color 
of the songs, but Richard called out once: ‘Jenny! For 
heaven’s sake, stop that costermonger’s stuff.’ 

‘ Eh, but tha’rt delicate,’ Jenny commented. Even 
though she tried so hard to stop, occasionally she would re¬ 
vert to the old tongue. But she did not sing again for a 
long time. 

Thaisa went one Saturday to the little publishing room. 
Richard was away and Peter was alone, setting type. ‘ I’d 
like to write like you do,’ she began, ‘ so my name could be 
printed in the magazine.’ 

‘ Well, let’s see if we can’t fix that.’ Peter never could 


38 


The Third Weaver 


deny any wish of hers. ‘ You know the purpose of the 
magazine ? ’ 

She shook her head. * Only a little. ... You want each 
person to have the same amount of money, don’t you ? ’ 

‘ I want a system wherein a man can with moderate labor 
secure necessities and comforts.’ 

‘ Is that going to happen because of your little magazine ? ’ 
she asked, worshipfully. 

* I can help,’ magnificently, ‘ but we must wrest control 
of the wealth-producing forces of this country from the few 
individuals who now control them for their own benefit.’ 

Peter spoke like a lecturer. She viewed him in awe, but 
after a time she arrived at her own thought. ‘ But if you 
could only make everybody happy doing something he likes 
to do, Peter,’ she suggested. ‘ It’s dreadful to have to sew a 
long seam when you want to dance — especially when the 
seam is in a piece of horrid muslin.’ 

‘ I see.’ 

‘Something beautiful when you’ve finished,’ she con¬ 
cluded. She was thinking of the tapestry in the old home 
in Victoria Park. 

‘ I wish you’d write a little piece along those lines for the 
magazine,’ he said after a moment. 

‘ My answer will be different from yours, won’t it, Peter ? ’ 

‘ Naturally; we all get different angles on questions. I 
might think that dividing money would be equality; you 
evidently don’t think so.’ 

‘No; but if you did think so, then you’d have to divide, 
wouldn’t you? It won’t do any good just to think some¬ 
thing and not do it, will it ? ’ 


The Third Weaver 


39 


‘ Well, being Thaisa, you’d have to go the whole way,’ he 
agreed. 

She pondered a great deal on what she was going to write 
for Peter’s magazine, that sheet which was to help change 
the face of the world. But at last the article was written, and 
she carried it to Peter. ‘ Father wrote his piece for the 
magazine last night too,’ she began. ‘And here is mine.’ 

Peter opened the sheet of paper and began to read. 

Equality 

I’ve been thinking about being equal. 1 remember a pic¬ 
ture in my old home and how I wished the people in it 
would join hands and dance together . 1 thought that would 
ma\e them even . But now 1 don’t know. Anyway, it isn’t 
in just dividing money as Veter thinks, its mostly how you 
feel about people. Love, and other things, coming from 
way inside you. Then about God, too. If the man on Fifth 
Avenue thought God was kind and the man on the Fast 
Side thought God was kind, then they’d be more equal and 
do what God wanted them to do. If they thought differ¬ 
ently, then they wouldn’t be equal. 

Peter lowered the paper and looked at her. ‘ And I shall 
have to wait so long before I can have you by my side to 
help me with all my problems! ’ 

‘ Do you have to wait till I’m grown, Peter? ’ 

‘ I’m afraid so.’ 

‘ But it won’t be so very long, Peter; I’ll grow up as fast 
as I can.’ 

He put his arm about her. ‘ I love your little article, 


40 


The Third Weaver 


Thaisa. . . . Always the internal and aesthetic problem 
with this little girl.’ 

Richard came winging in bringing his sketch. Richard 
wrote beautifully — words Thaisa loved like * crystal ’ and 
‘pure.’ He wrote cleverly, consciously. His contribution 
was called: 

On Keeping Little Birds in Captivity 

On my grounds m England I caused to be built a large 
glass house to accommodate a hundred yellow song canaries 
whose music was crystal pure. The songsters were interest¬ 
ing for a time, till I wearied of them. I wearied of them be¬ 
cause their spirits grew content and tame. Their song 
became impregnated with their reverence for mere food . 
They sang for their dinner, only. 

In freedom their music was uncontaminated by motive . 
They went hungry, if need be, and their song was of great 
spiritual beauty. 

So with man! In bondage his song grows less pure; let 
him love money and the things of money, then is he reduced 
to one attitude; such paucity ma\es of him a little creature, 
bound in a golden cage. 

Give me, say I, a hundred attitudes, so color from every 
source may shine in and through me. Thus only, may I con¬ 
tinue to be of interest to myself and to others. I shall love 
my own ardors, and men will enjoy my iridescence . 

Richard had gone after leaving his essay with Peter. 

‘ I shall print this,’ said Peter with a smile, ‘ not because it 
particularly belongs in a radical monthly, but because it’s so 
absolutely Richard, and Richard is worth knowing.’ 


The Third Weaver 


4i 


8 

Richard announced one day that he had decided to take 
a trip to Hendersville, a town near New York, on business. 

‘ Now it’s beginning/ remarked Jenny. ‘ You shouldn’t 
go away at this time.’ 

‘ Business is business/ Richard returned largely. 

He went to Hendersville. He was delayed longer than 
he had expected. The new owners of the overall factory, 
from whom he was trying to secure advertising for Peter’s 
paper, were being very kind to him, he wrote, though he 
was having a little difficulty in persuading them that a maga¬ 
zine which had so small a circulation was a good medium 
for them. The president of the concern had invited Richard 
to his home. 


9 

It was during Richard’s absence, in the middle of the 
night, that Thaisa was awakened suddenly out of a deep 
sleep. She went into Jenny’s room and found her sitting up 
in bed, her lips twisted. Her eyes were quite black and filled 
with such a strange expression, compounded of fear and ex¬ 
pectancy, that Thaisa stood still. . . . Jenny rose and pressed 
her hand on Thaisa’s shoulder. 

‘ Can you go and get your Aunt Sarah ? ’ 

Thaisa nodded. Her heart leapt with fear at thought 
of the dark streets, but she did not dream of refusing to 
go on this errand. She ran, head down, the blocks between 


4 * 


The Third Weaver 


her home and Aunt Sarah’s. Her violent knocks aroused 
Uncle Henry who, after hearing the message, departed to 
rouse his wife. 

Back, after an age, with Aunt Sarah. ‘ Oh, is Mother 
dying ? ’ 

‘ No, she’ll live to tell this tale and maybe many another 
like it,’ Aunt Sarah replied grimly. 

In her own room, Thaisa lay quiet. Was the doctor’s 
black bag a wizard thing carrying life ? Ordinary sense re¬ 
jected this explanation, though it had been tendered once 
by Jenny herself as true. 

No, there was something deep hidden. 

io 

Aunt Sarah called. Thaisa sprang from her bed and ran 
into the kitchen. ‘ Come here,’ said Aunt Sarah, and when 
Thaisa was close to her, she opened the bundle. ‘ There, 
Jenny did a good job of it after waiting so long. Meet your 
brothers, Thaisa.’ 

Two tiny creatures lay in their blankets in a curious 
silence, waiting for something. Aunt Sarah gazed down 
at them with a dual expression, half of disapproval, half a 
sort of fierce covetousness. 

‘ You can go in and see your mother for a moment, Thaisa,’ 
Then: ‘ You’re tuckered out. It’s just like both Richard and 
Jenny to let a child take the brunt of their own selfishness.’ 

Jenny lay very quiet. Thaisa approached the bed on tip¬ 
toes. She felt that something sacred had been brought into 
this room. ‘ Well, Thaisa,’ said Jenny faintly, ‘ the babies 


The Third Weaver 


43 


are here safe and sound, thank God, though more than I 
reckoned for.’ 

Thaisa spoke quickly: ‘Mother, where did they come 
from? * 

‘ I told you once about that.’ 

‘ But Mother, is that true ? ’ 

Jenny paused. At length: ‘A sweet, innocent little lass 
dost na ask such questions o’ her mother.’ 

Some understanding deeper than her intelligence swept 
Thaisa. Pure romance was here being demanded — some¬ 
thing perfect. It was Jenny’s deepest soul-desire to swing her 
little girl back to a place from which she had this day been 
moved, and into which, Thaisa herself knew, she could 
never again fit. 

But love filled her — love to give, love to erase a remorse 
she sensed. She was very happy, as always, when she was 
able to give. ‘ The doctor brought beautiful babies, Mother,’ 
she said. It was as though she had taken her mother and 
soothed her against her breast. 

ii 

A letter came from Richard. Aunt Sarah deliberately 
slit the envelope, read the letter, and then marched with it 
into Jenny’s room, where Thaisa was holding one of the 
babies. 

‘ Word from Richard,’ Aunt Sarah announced. ‘ I’ll read 
it to you, Jenny.’ 

Dear Jenny: The President of this overall and suspender 
factory, Emanuel Freeman, whom I expected might be 


44 


The Third Weaver 


quite an ordinary sort, turned out to be a gentleman of cul¬ 
ture and fine taste, as 1 believe Yve already told you. He 
insisted upon my leaving the one atrocious hotel in town to 
become his guest . We tal\ a great deal — music and lit¬ 
erature — and touch on some of the burning topics of 
the day . 

1 have heard nothing from home since leaving, and 1 
trust all is well . 

Richard . 

PS. Freeman, though against Peters ‘ hot-headed young 
socialistic ideas / and though he continues to spea\ some¬ 
what disparagingly of our circulation, has made my coming 
to Hendersville worth while from a business standpoint. 

When Aunt Sarah read the part about Richard’s new 
friend who could talk literature and music, she looked over 
the paper at Jenny. ‘ Music and literature! ’ she snapped. 
‘ If that isn’t Richard! To put the real business on which he 
went away down in a corner of his letter; unimportant, 
naturally.’ 

‘ I’ll take the letter now, since you’ve had first taste of it,’ 
said Jenny tartly. 

‘ I’d never have let you see it at all,’ Aunt Sarah returned 
complacently, ‘ if there’d been anything in it to bother you 
and so hurt the babies/ 

Richard arrived home late one afternoon after Aunt 
Sarah had left for the day. Thaisa, all excitement, met him 
at the door. Jenny had mysteriously decreed that he be left 
in perfect ignorance of the twins. Now, Thaisa whispered, 
‘ We’ve something new and wonderful to show you, Father.’ 


The Third Weaver 45 

He followed her into the bedroom, stood a moment quite 
still. * Look, Father,’ she cried, and turned down the 
blanket in the small basket. 

‘ My God! ’ said Richard. 


12 

Peter didn’t say ‘ My God ’ in that tone. Still, there was 
great awe in his face as he gazed at the babies. 

Thaisa knew, after a time, that he was worried. Then 
he confided to her that the little magazine was hardly 
holding its own, and that perhaps he’d be compelled to find 
a job as a street car conductor; he and she having once 
agreed that it must be lovely to ride miles every day and just 
tinkle a little bell for each passenger. 

* I’ll help you find a job,’ she said. 

‘ You will be my inspiration always.’ A glow came into 
his young eyes. ‘ The world needs you and me, Thaisa. 
We’ll push it forward! * 

He seemed a young knight to her and the white lock a 
wing on which to take flight. 

* Peter, it will be wonderful when I’m grown up and all 
ready for you.’ 

‘ Very wonderful, Thaisa. We’ll set out on the great ad¬ 
venture of seeking the beauty that means so much to you. 
Alone, I couldn’t find it, but together . . .’ 

‘Together we’ll be able to find everything, won’t we? ’ 

‘ Without the slightest doubt.’ 


4 6 


The Third Weaver 


13 

And then Peter seemed to go away from her. Whenever 
she went to the little publishing shop, there he sat at a small 
table, a deck of cards spread out before him. Solitaire! 

Cobwebs covered the little printing press. There was no 
money in the till, and Peter had come upon hard times. But 
he hid himself away, looking at the bits of cardboard. 

She waited; she would have helped him seek out the job 
of a street car conductor, but he would not notice her. And 
so life for her, with Peters coldness, was meaningless. 

Shortly after Christmas, the little magazine was com¬ 
pletely suspended. Peter was left stranded, and Richard 
was without any position. 

The babies cried a great deal, probably because 
Jenny was worried. ‘ I knew when you went in with that 
long-haired radical you’d made a mistake,’ said Aunt 
Sarah to Richard one day, as she soothed a twin lying in 
her arms. 

‘ Why do you persist, Sarah, in calling Peter “ long¬ 
haired ” ? ’ said Richard, smiling. ‘ He wears his hair 
clipped, and I’ve enjoyed him.’ 

‘You’ve enjoyed him because you’re so much alike, I 
should say; and here you’ve come a cropper and Jenny fret¬ 
ting so that the babies suffer.’ 

‘ Well,’ said Richard, ‘ we’re going to move on now. Free¬ 
man wrote to me when he heard the little magazine had 
gone up. He suggested that I open an agency for him in 
Chicago. We start next week.’ 


The Third Weaver 


47 


Thaisa could only stand, stricken. To leave Peter! Rich¬ 
ard knew her pain. ‘Never mind, Thaisa,’ he told her. 
‘ We’ll send for Peter some day.’ 

Peter, like Richard, said: ‘ Never mind, Thaisa. I’ll come 
to Chicago before long.’ She was silent after that. She 
had seen that Peter too was happy at the thought of change. 
He was off for San Francisco. His old aunt had died, but 
he knew many interesting people there. Her life seemed 
broken into. She felt desolated, abandoned. 

14 

Chicago! The small family left the depot on the West 
Side and stood uncertain which way to turn. Richard be¬ 
sought the aid of a policeman, and was directed east over the 
river. They boarded one car, then changed for a ‘ grip ’ 
trailer which took them out of the main business section of 
the city. Richard had insisted upon sitting in the ‘grip’ 
itself, and the strong chill wind from the lake blew through 
their thin clothing. Jenny held the babies, wrapped in one 
big shawl, tight against her breast. 

Richard was tremendously interested in all about him, 
but Thaisa’s heart was heavy. The leave-taking of Peter at 
the station in New York was still in her mind. He had held 
her in his arms, soothing her. ‘ Oh, Peter, Peter,’ she had 
cried, ‘ it hurts me so to leave you.’ 

‘ But remember, Thaisa, you’re just going away to grow 
up; then I’m coming for you.’ 

She lightened at that. ‘ But won’t it be a very long time, 
Peter? ’ 


4 8 


The Third Weaver 


‘ No, the days will just run along; you’ll have so many 
experiences.* 

As the train moved out, she stared at Peter, at Uncle 
Henry and at Aun t Sarah, who at the last amusingly had 
asked that one of the babies be left with her. Everything 
was strange. Even Bobby, who had denied her, looked at 
her now as though he liked her and was sorry she was going 
away. But life, she was beginning to feel, didn’t always 
balance. 

The gripman sent the car ahead with a jerk at every 
plunge. Thaisa fell to thinking. It was amazing, 
after Aunt Sarah’s exasperation over her discovery that 
Jenny was going to have a baby, that later she should have 
craved one for herself. ‘Mother,’ she asked, ‘why did 
Aunt Sarah want one of the twins, when she was so angry 
at first ? ’ 

‘ Like many another woman,’ Jenny answered, ‘ Sarah’s 
willing to take what she can get without the pain of it.’ Her 
eyes were fixed on Richard in the seat ahead. 

Did pain then usher in everything good and beautiful? 
Was that the law? 

At Thirty-ninth Street Richard alighted, put down his 
impedimenta and turned leisurely to help his family down. 

‘ Don’t take all day,’ the gripman admonished. 

‘ My good man,’ Richard answered calmly, ‘ I shall take 
all the time that seems necessary,’ and after assisting Jenny, 
he lifted Thaisa to the ground. Brave Father, who wasn’t 
afraid of that majestic driver. 

The house they stopped at stood at the corner of Thirty- 
ninth Street and Ellis Avenue, two blocks west of the lake. 


The Third Weaver 


49 


Miss Replica, the landlady, a tall flat-chested woman, 
answered their ring. 

‘ Come in,’ she said, after a slight hesitancy. Her eyes 
were fixed in a sort of fear on the round shawl that Jenny 
carried. 

‘ Mr. Freeman didn’t tell me there was a baby when he 
wrote engaging rooms,’ she remarked when they stood in 
the hall. 

‘They’re twins,’ said Thaisa proudly, ‘and their names 
are Richard and Paul.’ A silence fell. 

But it wasn’t resentment that came into Miss Replica’s 
faded eyes — just amazement. Jenny breathed a sigh of 
relief, and uncovered the cocoon bundle. The two baby 
heads revealed themselves. ‘I never saw the like,’ Miss 
Replica exclaimed. ‘ Twins — your own ? ’ she asked 
Jenny in such unconcealed admiration that a little color 
crept into Jenny’s pale cheeks and she flung her head higher. 
‘ Mine! ’ she replied, ‘ and as perfect a pair as were ever 
born.’ 

Miss Replica shook her head as at a wonder quite beyond 
her human calculation. She led the way up a narrow flight 
of stairs, very dim, down a hall to a suite of two rooms, one 
of which overlooked the station of the Illinois Central Rail¬ 
road. ‘ I hope you’ll like them,’ she said anxiously. ‘ At any 
rate, they’re all I have now. You can cook light meals here 
or go out to a restaurant.’ 

4 They’re very nice, I’m sure,’ said Richard, speaking for 
the first time and at once, as always, attracting a special at¬ 
tention. ‘ And I think we shall eat out for the present.’ 

Jenny looked straight at him, but she made no comment 


50 


The Third Weaver 


on his grandeur. That night, Miss Replica brought down 
a cradle from the attic. ‘ However it got there I don’t know,’ 
she said, ‘ but it will be handy.’ Besides the cradle, there was 
a cot for Thaisa, so they were pretty well crowded, what 
with the big walnut bed and all. But Miss Replica was 
kind, and her wandering attitude toward Jenny and the 
twins never ceased. 


15 

But Richard wasn’t very successful with the overall 
agency, and after a while Jenny was forced to tell Miss 
Replica that they couldn’t really afford to keep the rooms at 
ten dollars a week, even with the privilege of cooking in the 
tiny kitchen. And so with regrets they moved away. The 
beginning of the next winter found them settled in a four 
room flat in the rear of a brick building out south on Dear¬ 
born Street. 

‘Your father hates the business; it’s not rosy enough for 
him,’ said Jenny one day to Thaisa. ‘ Mark my words, it’ll 
go soon.’ 

A prophecy! Richard was about to throw up the job 
when a courteous letter arrived from Mr. Freeman—a 
warm appreciation of all that Richard had tried to accom¬ 
plish. There was no blame given, but the conclusion was 
that undoubtedly Richard’s great talents were worthy of 
some project less material than that of selling overalls. 

Richard read the letter to Jenny one evening after the 
twins were in bed and while Thaisa sat at the kitchen table 
studying her home work. She knew by the lift in his voice 


The Third Weaver 


5i 


that he was pleased with the letter. But Jenny’s eyes flashed. 

‘ Fine flattery puts no food into empty stomachs,’ she 
commented. 

Richard was thrown back. He shook his head a little as 
though cold water had been dashed upon him. ‘ I’ll get 
something else very soon,’ he muttered. 

16 

Letters came from Peter. In one, he told Thaisa he was 
off for Mexico; that she should not worry if she did not 
hear from him for some time. There might be months 
when he would be out of the beaten path. He bade her not 
to forget him. As if she could forget! 

They moved about a great deal. Once, for a few months, 
they lived in two tiny rooms, but Richard encouraged his 
family by reminding them of how much warmer they could 
keep when they were so close together. Then there was the 
winter when they were domiciled in a house whose entire 
front had been cut away, and Thaisa’s hair had frozen to the 
wall one night. Richard, unemployed, endeavored to make 
the children forget their cold and their hunger. He sat in 
the kitchen with an old chair near him and pretended its 
back was a harp, while he sang funny songs about being 
marooned on an iceberg. Jenny was away somewhere earn¬ 
ing a dollar. But Richard made the children laugh. And 
Thaisa knew her father also was hungry. 


5 * 


The Third Weaver 


17 

There were different schools and different sets of chil¬ 
dren to laugh at strange made-over garments and torn boots. 
Once, in an agony, Thaisa told Richard of these trials. He 
answered, ‘ The rabble, my dear, always laugh at their bet¬ 
ters.’ But this time Richard’s words gave little comfort. 
Still, she had to stick it out. In winter, biting cold fingers 
and blue lips. In summer, wretched small rooms that were 
unmercifully hot. Illnesses. . . . Lying palely in bed, while 
Jenny made interminable onion soup, and Richard, return¬ 
ing downcast from his searches, would cast off his gloom 
like a cloak, and while he rubbed Thaisa’s aching little limbs 
he would ‘ say poetry ’ to her. Malnutrition, undoubtedly. 
But she grew stronger after a while. 

There were days when Richard absolutely refused to 
‘ buck the commercial game,’ and he remained at home, 
while Jenny went out somewhere and returned with two 
dollars she had earned. (Boxing starch in a starch factory, 
Thaisa afterwards learned.) The little boys, happy and 
exhilarated, told Jenny of a game their father had invented, 
and Thaisa repeated to her a real story about a King who 
reigned over Star Countries and had a ship he could fly in. 
Jenny, in answer, murmured something about poetry and 
worn finger tips. 

But then, Jenny grumbled a great deal, sometimes won¬ 
dering where the next meal’s meat was to come from. She 
formulated all sorts of plans, like taking a job in a store, 
or going out to care for the quality’s children. * Couldn’t 
you just ask God, Mother ? ’ Thaisa ventured. 


The Third Weaver 


S3 


Jenny stared: ‘ What do you mean? ’ 

4 Just ask him to provide. You know the hymn says: 
“ The Lord will provide.” ’ 

‘ And sit with idle hands, waiting.’ 

Thaisa pondered. ‘ Well, I like Father’s way better.’ 

‘ Look sharp! What do you mean? ’ 

‘ Father’s singing and poetry.’ 

‘ You can have those and an empty stomach.’ 

* I wouldn’t mind that, Mother, if I had to choose.’ 

‘ No, being a Worthington you’ll never take life in a prac¬ 
tical way. You’ll always go on top of your mountain, a 
proud lass, and flaunt at them that’s near you.’ 

Thaisa stood white and silent. ‘ Now then,* Jenny cried, 
‘ what do you mean? Wipe that look off your face! I’m 
every bit as good as you are, even if my mither did sell ker¬ 
chiefs off Nottingham Mill Stones, and thy grandmither 
ne’er wet her hands. You’ll not come her high and mighty 
ways over me.’ 

Memory returned in a flood. Grandfeyther Evans! Jenny 
sounded like him, looked like him at the moment. . . . 

‘ Get about dusting that front room now, and no more 
nonsense.’ 

Thaisa went draggingly to this dull duty. 

18 

After a time Jenny, who was not at all religious, joined a 
church. ‘ Rich and powerful ’ had been her words regard¬ 
ing the church, and nothing whatever said of the spirit. 

Jenny maneuvered that Richard and Thaisa should at¬ 
tend services on Sunday morning. Richard was very distin- 


54 


The Third Weaver 


guished looking in his Prince Albert coat and a shining tall 
hat. People spoke to them, and Richard answered in quick, 
light words. Thaisa knew he was accepted, and she was 
conscious of women pressing about — of heavy scents. How 
splendid her father looked as he talked, his silk hat held 
against his breast. His face was lifted high, and his thick, 
dark hair grew away from a forehead she thought noble. 

Jenny, on the other hand, never attended church. But 
she grew to be very charitable and went every Tuesday to 
the parish house to make garments for the church poor and 
to sew on sheets and pillow slips for the hospital which the 
church helped to support. She worked under a Mrs. Van 
Valkenberg, Thaisa’s new Sunday School teacher. 

Now Jenny began to manage wonderfully on what little 
money Richard was able to give her — Richard who was 
moving about from pillar to post, and never settled. Always 
there was good food; sometimes there were luxuries like 
fried chicken and little French cakes, which Jenny would 
usually bring home in a small box after she had finished her 
sewing at the parish house. She even produced a complete 
new dress for Thaisa, which she had bought at a bargain, 
she confided. It was too large, but she ripped it and made 
it over. 

But once Jenny was greatly disturbed. A neighbor had 
come to visit on one of the afternoons Jenny was away, and 
Thaisa, led on, innocently told of Jenny’s whereabouts. 
Later, Jenny took Thaisa to task. . . You see what comes 
of giving away my business,’ she cried. ‘ That besom next 
door turned up at the Society this afternoon! ’ 

Thaisa, puzzled, could not understand. But Jenny made 


The Third Weaver 


55 


it all very plain. * The poor, sacrificing creature comes to 
do her bit, and the ladies give her a place at one of the ma¬ 
chines. Now remember, Thaisa Worthington, she’s not to 
set foot in my house again whilst I’m away. You 
remember! ’ 

Thaisa, mystified, gave her promise. ‘ I’ll not talk to her 
again, Mother, but I’ll never understand why she shouldn’t 
help.’ 

‘ Don’t try to understand what’s beyond you then,’ Jenny 
advised. ‘ That woman had no right to work herself in on 
my province, and you let it go at that.’ 

19 

The next day Richard left his last job with a collection 
agency. ‘ Such work deadens me,’ he told Jenny. ‘ I’d 
rather starve.’ 

She regarded him helplessly. ‘Deadens! Deadens!’ She 
gave it up. After a while she spoke carefully, feeling 
her way. 

‘ You’ve made friends with some of the fine people in the 
church and you go to their homes sometimes. They’d help 
you if you’d ask — put you in the way of earning good 
money.’ 

He looked straight back at her. ‘ Is that why you were 
so anxious to have me join the church? Well, Jenny, I’ll 
have to disappoint you.’ 

‘ Go on with your dreaming, then,’ she returned sharply. 

‘ Mother, couldn’t you go with Father into the Land of 
Dreams,’ Thaisa inquired, after Richard had gone away. 


5* 


The Third Weaver 


‘Land o’ dreams, nonsense. . . . I’ve never had time 
for dreams.* 

‘ Maybe you will now that I’m nearly a woman, Mother. 
I’ll work so that you can rest.’ 

It was true; Thaisa was growing up. 

20 

As she grew into womanhood, she reached out more and 
more for beauty of spirit and of equality. In Reba Van Val- 
kenberg she found beauty of person and ideas, combined 
with a certain restlessness. She spoke to Jenny about in¬ 
viting Reba to their home. 

Jenny turned in amazement. ‘ Invite her here ? * 

‘I’d love to; she’s so darling.’ 

‘ Reba Van Valkenberg who lives in that mansion? ’ 

‘ I don’t understand, Mother.’ 

‘ There you go again looking like your lady grandmother. 
You can’t invite the quality into your poor home.’ 

This kind of thinking was out of Thaisa’s understanding. 
Reba was lovely, though Thaisa did not like Mrs. Van 
Valkenberg and her pretensions. When she went to the 
Michigan Avenue home to a Christmas party, Mrs. Van 
Valkenberg’s efforts to impress her quite failed. Only she 
hated the woolen dress that Jenny mysteriously made her 
wear instead of one of the pretty frocks she had made over. 

Though she disliked Mrs. Van Valkenberg, Thaisa ad¬ 
mired the tall, scholarly man who studied butterfly lore, and 
to whose arm Reba clung lovingly, or whose hair she ruffled 
as she drawled, ‘. . . My dear parent, you do not know 


The Third Weaver 


57 


anything. . . .’ She liked the manner in which he handed 
out to the guests small envelopes containing crisp five-dol- 
lar bills. 

But it was from this same party that Thaisa returned home 
to Jenny so indignant. . . . She burst into the house and 
began her story at once: ‘ Mother, Ellen Garret said she’d 
like an amber necklace sometime because it had a beautiful 
sparkle; it would make her happy just to look at it.’ 

‘Well?’ Jenny stiffened in attention. She was always 
afraid of Thaisa’s strange notions. 

‘ Mrs. Van Valkenberg said she was looking above her 
class, and that she should learn to be a straight-walking, 
God-fearing girl, and ended by telling her that a flannel 
petticoat was what she should ask for.’ 

‘ As I should say very sensible,’ Jenny returned, relaxing. 
‘ Now don’t get so worked up, Thaisa; you’re trembling.’ 

‘ But Mother, you don’t understand; Reba Van Valken¬ 
berg was standing near all the time, dressed in soft white. 
And she was wearing a shining necklace — then Mrs. Van 
Valkenberg offering Ellen a flannel petticoat when she was 
dying for beauty! It isn’t just! ’ 

‘ Did you say anything like that to Mrs. Van Valkenberg? ’ 
Jenny asked, in a voice of deep concern. 

‘ No, I just couldn’t speak; something choked me.’ 

‘ Well then, know on which side your bread is buttered, 
and keep your tongue within your cheek! ’ 

‘ What do you mean, Mother ? ’ 

‘ Just what I say. Face the truth; you have to live, and 
you haven’t a father as can ever earn money.’ 

‘ But what has money to do with beauty and fairness? ’ 


58 


The Third Weaver 


‘ See here, my girl, I don’t know what you mean, always 
talking about beauty. If you want beauty, go and walk 
down to the lake when the moon shines on it. . . 

* Oh, not that kind of beauty, Mother — something deeper, 
something coming from inside you. ... I can’t explain.’ 
She stopped: ‘ Do you remember the tapestry that hung in 
Grandmother’s drawing room? Well, that was beautiful, 
but even there you always waited for something. . . 

‘ Waited for something? ’ 

‘ Yes. . . . I used to stand and hope that those men and 
women going on some journey would take hands — to¬ 
gether. . . . But only one of them seemed — free — be¬ 
cause he didn’t care. . . .’ So she faltered. 

‘ Eh, you’re a strange one — you and your father. His 
jobs drag him down or bore him, while I say work’s work. 
And you’re always wanting something perfect. And you’ll 
never get it, let me warn you. Take a leaf out of my book, 
and seize what you can get.’ 

‘Oh, Mother, how horrible!’ Passionately: ‘If I can’t 
have everything, I’ll not just take anything. I’d rather die! ’ 

Jenny looked into the intense young face. ‘ Well, you’ll 
suffer sore before you learn not to care. . . 

Some flash illumined Thaisa. ‘ It isn’t just not caring,’ 
she said, feeling her way, ‘ it’s a holy indifference. . . .’ The 
color came up into her face, and she felt an embarrassment 
before Jenny’s wide, laughing eyes. 

‘ Well, have it your own way,’ Jenny returned, wholly at 
sea, ‘but I repeat you’ll save yourself many a heartache if 
you’ll stop this looking for beauty in people and in things. 
Just take life as it is, say I.’ 


The Third Weaver 


59 


21 

Occasionally Richard dined out. Thaisa was proud of 
him when he sallied forth in his frock coat and high hat 
which were now growing a bit shabby. He had made 
friends with the quality, as Jenny put it. In one way, it was 
to be seen that she was very proud of his estate; in another, 
darkly angered. 

But at night, Thaisa would awaken to high, hard words 
from Jenny and wonder if that was the way Jenny took life 
as it was — and no answer from Richard. That silence of 
his was cold and bitter and could be felt like a sharp wind. 

‘. . . like your father. . . .’ These words floated out one 
night and a quick answer, *. . . If that is true, I could wish 
your way like my mother’s. . . .’ 

Silence. Thaisa, ice cold, and trembling in her small bed, 
wondered if her parents had been struck dead. 

But soon Jenny’s voice rose high and shrill again. ‘ So 
that I know where you are . . 

‘ Better get a chain and ball.’ 

And suddenly like a torrent let loose — Jenny crying, and 
Richard’s ice-voice so like Grandmother’s, . . Kindly have 
the decency to remember the children. . . 

*. . . love. . . . Oh, the sorrow it brings a woman.’ 

‘ Love! . . Thaisa buried her head beneath the pillow. 
And thought of Peter. 

And Richard went away and remained away for weeks. 
And there was no money. Jenny worked hard at whatever 
she could find to do. 


6o 


The Third Weaver 


‘ Can’t you rest, Mother ? ’ Thaisa asked. 

* Rest! There’s no rest for that horse as can work, my 

lass. No, I’ll just have to take in plain sewing.* 

‘ I’ll help, Mother. I’ll earn some money.’ 

‘ Eh, do you think you could ? ’ Gratitude rose in Jenny’s 
voice, and Thaisa felt new powers opening within her. 

22 

She put away her books and went forth. She found, at 

last, a position in an ornate candy shop in Thirty-fifth Street 
where she was to work every day from eleven till ten at night 
for ten dollars a week. This was wonderful, only that she 
was frightened, when her work was over for the day, to 
traverse the dark streets to her home. But she did not tell 
Jenny this. 

The proprietor was one Kraus, a fat man who had once 
been handsome in a vulgarly decorative way, but was now 
at middle age and dreadfully shop worn. He was affec¬ 
tionate of manner, and he kindly pressed her arm as he 
gave her directions. His eye was appraising; he relished 
personalities: ‘You’re quite the little woman. I like you 
in that snug jersey.’ His glance scorched her. He was in¬ 
creasingly affectionate when he taught her how to mix soda 
water with chocolate flavoring. She felt his breath on her 
cheek when he explained the intricacy of weighing licorice 
caramels. She moved away from him, a nausea upon her. 

The shop was located near a high school, and the tall 
young lads began frequenting it of an evening, as they had 


The Third Weaver 


6 1 


not before Thaisa’s advent. Each stopped for a word with 
her, but though she flashed grey-black eyes at them, she was 
sedately conscious of her duties to Mr. Kraus. 

She was really mostly interested in the tinkle of the soda 
as it fell in a sparkling stream from the fountain into tall 
glasses; the pure white ice cream and the rich brown of the 
melted chocolate. She loved the delicate white candies, 
spun-glass mounds, sugared rose petals. Very soon, how¬ 
ever, she learned to put bags of candy down on the glass 
show case, to avoid contact with warm hands. From chance 
touches, she shrank painfully. 

Mr. Kraus, watching from his high stool in the cashier’s 
pulpit, called her to him at the end of the evening. 

‘ Dearie,’ he began, 4 it ain’t good business for you to be 
so high and mighty with the boys.’ 

She didn’t know what he meant. 

4 Why, I saw at once you’d bring in trade. You got eyes 
to wheedle a bird off a tree. You just go ahead and use 
them.’ 

It was all too puzzling. A shiver of distaste shook her; 
she hated all ugliness, and this man was ugly. She moved 
away quickly from the horrid covetousness she saw in his 
face. 

One night, when it was nearly closing time, Kraus spoke to 
her again. She had been working for him a month. 
4 Trade’s better,’ he told her. 4 You’re a bit more friendly 
with the boys, I can see that.’ 

4 1 didn’t know I’d changed.’ 

He stood so close to her that an emotion of disgust swept 


6i 


The Third Weaver 


her, making her faint. She polished the silver chocolate 
urn and tried to move away from him, but he followed her, 
always close beside her. 

The door opened, and Richard walked in. He came 
straight to the counter and, quite ignoring Kraus, said, ‘ Put 
on your hat and coat, Thaisa; we’re going home.* 

When she stood ready for the street, Kraus spoke: ‘I’m 
very much pleased with your girl; anybody can see she’s 
yours, she’s so much like you. I was thinking of raising 
her wages.’ 

‘ She’s not coming back,’ said Richard looking quite over 
Kraus’s head. 


23 

Rain was falling softly into the warm April night. Rich¬ 
ard, who held an umbrella, opened it. ‘ Take my arm, 
Thaisa,’ he invited. ... “ When I came home and found 
you gone! . . .” 

How wonderful and protecting was this close intimacy, 
so different from the loneliness of the nights when she had 
scurried, shaking and frightened, through black streets. 

He turned to survey her. ‘ It’s frightful to think a daugh¬ 
ter of mine should be working in such a place. ... I shall 
start looking into a college for you.’ 

She said: ‘College? I should like that, Father. And I’m 
glad, in a way, that I don’t have to go back to that candy 
shop. I didn’t like the man there. He always spoke so close 
to my car, as though I were deaf. And I hated his touching 
me when he showed me how to do things! ’ 



The Third Weaver 


63 


She felt the sudden tremble of his arm against her own. 

‘ I’ll kill him! ’ he cried. The passion in his voice frightened 
her. 4 No, no, Father, come along; it doesn’t matter now.’ 
She urged him on, and after a time he fell in step with her 
again. 

It was all so alluring — this close walk, refreshing her 
spirit that had felt so bruised. The rain fell with a soft 
rhythm on the umbrella; the sidewalks, wet and glistening, 
seemed to stretch out, beckoning to some far and charming 
country where fathers and daughters walked always arm 
in arm in a sweet and satisfying companionship. She was 
swung back to those days when he spelled her whole world 
— before Peter came. 

4 I’m always going to remember tonight, Father.’ 

4 So am I, Thaisa. But some day, soon now, you’ll walk 
down a lane with another, in whom you’ll see a god and 
who will see in you the reality of all his dreams.’ 

4 That will be Peter.’ She said it in such exquisite sim¬ 
plicity that he drew her closer. Then he looked down at 
her face, upturned to his and illumined by a street lamp. 
The deeps of his fatherhood came up. 4 Thaisa, my daugh¬ 
ter, you will be loved. ... I should like to spare you — the 
disillusions.’ And then : 4 Don’t ask too much of mere man.’ 

They went on very close together. 

24 

Jenny was annoyed at Richard’s interference, for she had 
thought that Thaisa was doing very well. She laughed at 
the idea of college, though she had known that Richard 


6 4 


The Third Weaver 


would feel the great necessity of a Worthington’s being well 
educated. 

But Richard forgot about college for Thaisa. One of the 
women of the church intended to put on a pretentious play, 
the proceeds to go to charity, and she enlisted Richard’s aid. 

This was work after his own heart. He emptied his 
pockets for Jenny and marched away. The ballroom of 
the great house was to be transformed into a theatre; a stage 
was to be built. He saw long, happy days before him. 

4 Bring the twins over some day,’ he said to Thaisa the 
first morning he left, and she nodded. 

4 The quality’s not good pay,’ said Jenny, 4 and Richard 
never thinks of money.’ 

So Thaisa went out again and found a place with Madam 
Lester, the beauty expert with a salon on Michigan Avenue. 
To Thaisa, Madam Lester seemed a royal creature arrayed 
in a gorgeous garment of flame-colored silk that tightly 
sheathed her opulent figure. Her hair was richly golden; 
her face glowed like a hard gem. 

She took Thaisa on at once. 4 It will all be very easy,’ she 
said. 4 Just tell the ladies you use my preparations.’ 

Madam Lester put Thaisa into a black silk frock, creamed 
and powdered her face, skilfully rouging the fair skin. The 
slim body was delicately curved at bosom line. This sud¬ 
den maturity was wrought by a hidden little pneumatic 
trifle — Madam Lester’s own invention. 

Miss Thomas, Madam Lester’s assistant, initiated Thaisa 
into her duties. The program was always to be the same: 
a patient given the privilege of a short talk with Madam 
Lester in her scented parlor; Thaisa summoned to stand — 


The Third Weaver 


65 


tall, sweet, grave. ‘ Another of my patients,’ — Madam 
Lester’s honeyed accents — ‘You should have seen her skin 
when first she came to work for me; marvelous results in a 
very short time.’ And Thaisa — wrapping up a dozen jars 
and bottles. 

She grew to feel very sorry for the seekers after beauty. 
They looked so joyless, and she fervently hoped that the 
elixir of youth which daily she wrapped for them would 
bring them happiness. Perhaps that was the answer in this 
strange world. Everybody beautiful, everybody happy — a 
perfect balance. Not, as Peter used to say, to wrest control 
of the money from the few and divide it up. No, Madam 
Lester had discovered the secret — to change ugliness into 
beauty. She grew tremendously to admire Madam Lester, 
the altruist, who gave her all to this wonderful work. 

This passion she conceived for Madam Lester, both for her 
personal beauty and for her working out her own seemingly 
noble purpose in the world, made her tremble when in the 
elder woman’s presence. Madam Lester’s beautiful white 
hands, wandering among the alabaster jars, thrilled her. She 
worked late on several nights a week that she might be near 
the charmed one. 


25 

Madam Lester was to move on to St. Louis, leaving Miss 
Thomas in charge. The day before her departure some¬ 
thing happened — Thaisa never knew just what — but when 
she arrived at the shop, the atmosphere was thunderous. 
Miss Thomas barely jerked her head in Thaisa’s direction 


66 


The Third Weaver 


and went on arranging small articles in the cases. But as 
Thaisa started toward Madam Lester’s room, Miss Thomas 
said quickly, ‘ Don’t go in; she’s on a rampage.’ 

‘ A rampage! ’ 

‘ Yes; just because profits didn’t show as much as she’d 
like. And they’re big enough — the old miser! ’ 

Thaisa, however, went on to Madam Lester’s room. Her 
black silk frock was always kept there. She knocked and 
pushed open the door as usual. ‘ Get out! ’ a voice screamed. 

Was this old, worn, horrible woman Madam Lester? 
There was no doubt of it. She stood near a window, clad in 
a shapeless 4 wrapper.’ Her thin hair was pulled straight 
back from a high, lined forehead. Her face held a thousand 
drooping lines. Ugly, old, repulsive. 

‘Oh, it’s you!’ cried Madam Lester. She waddled to a 
hook, pulled down the black frock and flung it across the 
room. ‘Put it on! ’ she shrieked. ‘And then if you can’t 
earn as much today as you ought, get out! ’ 

Thaisa stared a moment at the distorted face before her; 
then with no word she turned and walked out of the place. 

2 6 

‘ And you walked out without your money ? ’ Jenny asked. 

‘Yes, she was so ugly! ’ 

‘ Ugly! Ugly! And what’s that got to do with work ? ’ 

‘Everything, Mother. You don’t understand.’ 

‘ Don’t I, though ? It takes a Worthington to under¬ 
stand, I suppose. It was the same way at the candy shop 
where you were earning good money. I’ve a good mind to 


The Third "Weaver 


67 


make you march straight back, old as you are, and demand 
what’s owing to you.’ 

* I wouldn’t do that, Mother,’ Thaisa returned, gazing 
straight back at Jenny. 

‘ Now, I’m sick and tired of your airs — proud as Lucifer! ’ 
Jenny cried out in uncontrollable wrath. 

Thaisa stood quite still; she thought Jenny herself very 
unbeautiful at this moment. ‘ Now then, don’t look at me 
that way, you young faggot.’ Jenny’s voice rose. 

Thaisa still remained, impenetrable. 

‘The spit and image of your lady grandmother and I 
hated her, her airs and her coldness. ... Yes, you’ll go into 
ice, just as she did.’ 

Jenny could not see into a quivering young heart. She 
struck out: ‘I’ll melt you out of ice. Look sharp, while I 
tell you . . .’ 

A nerve stirred in the proud young face. ‘ I don’t want 
to hear, Mother. . . .’ presciently. 

‘ You’ll hear, my lady! How do you think we’d have lived 
all these years if I hadn’t held my cup even with the ladies of 
the church — if I hadn’t frightened that cheeky besom that 
once came snooping — frightened her clean out of the way ? 
And have you or your father ever asked where we got this 
or that ? ’ 

She paused with true dramatic sense. ‘ No! And all the 
work I’ve gone to. . . . Where’d you think you got your 
pretty dresses and buckled slippers to graduate in ? Whistled 
off the trees? No! . . . I went to Mrs. Van Valkenberg’s 
and got the dress for you — dyed it a different color and 
made it over. 


68 


The Third Weaver 


4 Now, my proud lass, what do you think of that ? Frettin’ 
and frettin’ you were, wantin’ a pretty dress — and a dollar 
here and a dollar there, cornin’ from your father — and, no, 
I mustn’t disgrace the family name and stoop to charity. 
And you’re dragged away from the candy shop, and things 
would be better some day — some day, when more poetry 
would come with work. . . . 

4 Well, I went one night to Mrs. Van Valkenberg’s — over 
to her fine mansion. Don’t think I were in love with my 
job, goin’ round to a back door and hearin’ the big dogs 
strainin’ at their chains to get at me. . . . But my girl were 
going to graduate tidied up as good as any! ’ 

Something smote deep into Thaisa. . . . She cried out, 
4 No, no, Mother — to go begging for me! . . . Mother! 9 

4 That’ll do, Miss, namin’ things that way. . . . One of the 
uppity servants they keep in this country opened the back 
door, and I told her I wanted to see Mrs. Van Valkenberg. 
She were for shuttin’ me out, but quick I pushed in and 
walked behind her into the servants’ dinin’ room. 

Mrs. Van Valkenberg is busy,” says she. 

4 44 I’ll wait till she’s not, then,” says I, and sat down. She 
stared right at me, and I stared her down. Out she flaunted. 

4 She left the door open and I heard voices from the parlor, 
and whose voice were it I heard talkin’ high things beyond 
my poor understandin’? ’ 

4 1 don’t know, Mother.’ 

' Your father's. There he were in the parlor, sittin’ on a 
velvet chair belike, and smilin’ and being smiled at, more 
than belike, and listened to. Music and literature, as your 
Aunt Sarah would have said. . . . Music and literature — 


The Third Weaver 


69 


things without life — and I cornin’ for something to clothe 
the nakedness of his only daughter — a Worthington.’ 

‘Oh, Mother, Mother — please! . . 

‘ You’ll have to stand till the finish now. The servant 
comes back, wi’ Mrs. Van Valkenberg following her, a bit 
of curiosity breakin’ into her smugness. She comes shim¬ 
merin’ in, all drenched with scent, and says she in her high 
voice, “ . . . Well, my good woman, and what can I do 
for you ? ” 

‘ And I spoke. ... I remembered well enough what once 
you told me of her handin’ out a flannel petticoat in place 
of a glitterin’ necklace, and very humbly I says, “ Just a worn 
little dress, Mrs. Van Valkenberg. Something mayhap your 
daughter wears at the Girls’ Friendly Society so as not to 
make those lower than her too envious. . . .” And she 
brightens considerably at that and says, “ Wait a minute....” 

‘ Well, I got the dress, a prettier one than if I hadn’t been 
so canny. “ There must be more,” says she, returning with 
dress and slippers. “ Reba tires so quickly of her clothes. 
But I haven’t time to look around. Perhaps later — some 
other time. We have a guest,” she finishes, and: “Mary, 
give this person a cup of tea in the kitchen.” ’ 

27 

Thaisa — dead white, trembling, clasping and unclasping 
her hands. . . . ‘ She’s a wicked, unjust woman to entertain 
Father as an equal and send you to the kitchen! ’ 

Jenny laughed — a short, harsh sound. ‘ You don’t think, 
do you, she knows my real name ? That I’m related to your 


70 


The Third Weaver 


father? She’s never seen us together, has she? I’ve taken 
good care of that. I laid all my plans when I saw we’d sink 
or swim, accordin’ to my labors. Nay, in my church work 
I’m Mrs. O’Hara, a hard workin’, deservin’ widow, with a 
little family to support.’ 

And then suddenly, for the first time in her life, Thaisa 
fainted and lay, a white, crumpled heap on the floor. . . . 


PART THREE 


c 

OME and visit us,’ Richard Worthington wrote to 
Peter Dagmar. Peter who for the last year had been settled 
in Chicago, in a North Side studio, was stirred to accept the 
invitation. 

Richard’s newsy letter had been sent on from Peter’s old 
San Francisco address. Intensely interested, Peter read that 
the Worthington family was living in a Portland town, 
Ranger by name. Richard had bought a hop farm. Hop 
farm for Richard! Peter grinned. He had tired of work 
in a small stock theatre in Chicago and had longed for 
contrasts. On the farm he had found them. A small 
amount down, monthly payments, and now, in a short time, 
the farm would be wholly his own. 

He spoke of Thaisa. A woman grown and a most inter¬ 
esting person to her father. Peter undoubtedly would en¬ 
joy her. 

Peter put the letter down. He was thirty now, but in him 
seemed the eternal spirit of youth. His thick hair was still 
black with the noticeable silver wing. Youth and the 
eager vitality of youth were his, but there was a certain ex¬ 
pression in his face which betokened that he had found life 
unresponsive to a deep and hidden hunger. 

He looked at the letter again. Thaisa! He recalled, as 
he had not for years, the ‘ ship days ’ in New York — days 
voyaged with a child’s hand clasping his — a child with 
71 



7 2 


The Third Weaver 


worshiping, uplifted eyes. What a darling she had been! 
In fancy again he could see the small, pointed face, the full, 
sensitive lips. 

So, thinking of her, he felt that the meeting in the park, 
the ship days and the absurd vow once exchanged were not 
incidents to Thaisa, but beauties ordained. And in a sharp, 
delightful sensation, he felt at one with her in this faith, as 
he had in that moment in the park. 

But immediately he laughed at the absurdity. The years 
had taught him that man’s dreams seldom see fulfillment. 

An absurdity! And until Richard’s letter came, awaken¬ 
ing memories, the entire experience was submerged — al¬ 
most forgotten. He had lived his life, moving about from 
place to place as fancy dictated. Two years before, he had 
landed in Chicago, his funds low, to attach himself to the 
staff of the Little Advocate Magazine, a venture that soon 
passed out. A faint disappointment had touched him when 
he found the Worthington family had gone before his 
arrival. 

Just at present he was free-lancing, writing articles con¬ 
cerned with new and old freedom, and sometimes short 
stories which he found very difficult to sell. He was aching 
to get at a play. 

Other men, at some time in their lives, settled down. 
Peter seemed always searching for something to satisfy an 
inner ache, an ache that had grown with the idle years. He 
was fastidious and, in his experiences with women, always 
came out with saddened and disillusioned heart. 

He thought of himself as not particularly romantic, but 
there was a deep necessity to find himself at the center of 


73 


The Third Weaver 

some universe. This idea he would have laughed at, but 
what need was it that kept him so restless, so eternally on 
the move? 

Always searching, yet hating as a sentimentality the secret 
desire; plunging for weeks into labor, when he would write 
incessantly, trying to chain into words something deeply 
felt; often, at the end of these exhausting periods, tearing 
into fragments the pages he had written. 

Once, after a dark night of remorse that followed a month 
of hard and riotous living, he had tramped from his North 
Side studio far out to Jackson Park, attempting to discover 
by actual observation how many men looked as though 
they were glad of the boon of life. In the fifteen-mile trip, 
he counted four men who walked with their heads up. 

Returning, he shuffled the papers on his desk to one side 
and built squares and triangles out of his set of black and 
white dominoes. He kept at this work till far into the night. 

But now, thinking of Richard’s invitation, decision came 
quickly. He would go to Ranger to see Thaisa — who must 
be now about eighteen — her amazing father and the pic¬ 
turesque Jenny. The twins too would be quite grown out 
of babyhood. 

A feeling of destiny came to him, and a little chill. . . . 
Warning. But Peter was accustomed to flinging his cap 
over the windmill. He went on with his preparations for 
departure. 


74 


The Third Weaver 


2 

Peter, of course, should have telegraphed to Ranger of his 
coming. But it pleased his dramatic sense simply to drop off 
one summer day at Portland, and from there, directed by a 
farmer, to make his way by interurban to within five miles 
of Richard’s farm. 

A low wagon stood near the interurban terminal, and in 
this vehicle Peter rode interestedly toward Thaisa — the old 
driver being evidently glad to make a dollar. 

The countryside was lovely. Clusters of the square hop 
blossoms were yellowing; the distinctive hop odor enticed 
and aroused. Strange sense of movement filled him. He 
felt an urge to walk, and inquiring how far it was before 
they would make the Worthington farm, he alighted and 
started on his way. 

A good mile, and he was glad to prolong anticipation. 
Thrill there was in the thought of meeting this child of 
earlier years, but with it now a new, unaccountable emotion. 
It was as though Thaisa and he had never separated — as 
though she had been growing along by his side, mixing into 
his life in a strange and beautiful way. 

He laughed at himself, thinking the hop incense had af¬ 
fected him with weird dreams. Soon he neared the farm, 
which he recognized by landmarks pointed out to him by 
the old driver. A farm! A shack rather, set back from the 
road — but this building he could examine later. For the 
moment, his entire attention was taken up by a sight, at once 
disturbing and exhilarating. 


The Third Weaver 


75 


In the road, which was lined on both sides by trees, a boy 
and a girl were pitching ball. The girl wore a shrunken 
gingham dress, a washed-out lavender that clung, revealing 
soft and promising maturities, beautiful hints of perfections 
yet to be. Peter’s heart at once told him that this was Thaisa. 

The boy, in cotton breeches and sleeveless shirt, his blond 
hair flying in the wind, seemed perfect complement for the 
girl. Their lovely bodies leaped for the ball, crept along 
the ground to its hiding place, mingled, separated. Their 
voices rose ecstatically. Unfettered youth at play. 

The boy threw the ball; the girl caught it, held it against 
her breast, while her partner waited impatiently for the 
return. * Oh, come on,’ cried the boy impatiently, ‘ throw 
the ball, Thaisa.’ 

‘ Come and get it,’ the girl replied tantalizingly. 

The boy sprang toward her, his lithe body seeming to fly 
through the air. Together they struggled until the girl, in a 
motion of living grace, turned and flung the ball far from 
her. She laughed ringingly, while the lad in quick chase 
went after the prize. 

Peter, standing there unseen, knew a strange emotion. 
He seemed to be gazing upon a picture complete in every 
detail. Two exquisite creatures, vibrant with life, moving 
to some ripe completion. 

For a high moment, an impulse seized him to vanish quietly 
as he had come; not to mix himself into this picture. The 
impulse was so strong that he did half turn, and then the 
girl’s laughter rang out again. So sweet a sound from which 
to banish himself! In a moment Peter hurried forward. 
He must have made a slight noise that reached the girl’s 


7 ^ 


The Third Weaver 


ears. She turned, gazed at him. Then Peter swept off his 
cap, revealing the silver wing. ... He stepped nearer, was 
about to call her name, but she cried out first. 

' Peter, Peter! . . / She stood regarding him, a strange 
look in her eyes, as though some portrait for long identi¬ 
fied with her life, then in the natural course of things fad¬ 
ing, had again taken on living contours. 

Once more, in the face of her strange, half-frightened ex¬ 
pression, the impulse came to him to turn away. But, ab¬ 
surdly, the girl herself began to run toward the shack that 
lay back a hundred feet from the road. 

The lad returned, stared at Peter and then after Thaisa’s 
retreating figure. Peter, smiling now, went at a leisurely 
pace toward the shack. Thaisa in her flight had left the 
door open, and Peter going up the three steps, gazed within. 
He could see into one large room, unpapered, with rough 
plaster. There were undoubtedly other rooms leading out 
on either side. The wind must sigh through thin plank 
floors. Of course, with Jenny’s hand at the helm, the place 
was scrupulously clean. 

As he paused, a woman came through a back door and 
straight through the large room to where he stood. He 
knew her at once, even though her hair was greying a little 
and she seemed to have put on more flesh. She looked more 
content than he remembered. He said, 4 How do you do, Mrs. 
Worthington? I’m Peter Dagmar.’ 

4 Well,’ she answered, 4 is that what set her off? Come 
in, I’m glad to see you; Richard and the boys are helping 
out at the MacFarland place.’ 

4 1 hope I didn’t frighten Thaisa.’ 


The Third Weaver 77 

Jenny lifted her voice reprovingly. ‘Thaisa! Thaisa! 
What’ll your old friend think of you? ’ 

Silence; then a sound in the adjoining room, and Thaisa 
appeared. ‘ Now then,’ said Jenny, ‘ come and shake hands 
with some one you used to think the sun rose and set by.’ 

Crimson color flamed into Thaisa’s face. With a quick 
glance at Jenny, she came forward, held out a hand that 
trembled, and said, ‘ I’m glad to see you, Peter.’ 

He took the hand close within his own, hoping to steady 
her. But he himself felt far from steady. The warm fingers 
trembling within his clasp disturbed his pulses. ‘ There’s 
water to be got,’ said Jenny in her quick voice. 

Thaisa turned at once. Through the window, a mo¬ 
ment later, Peter saw her drawing water from a primitive 
well. She used a five gallon coal-oil can with a rigged 
up handle. 

He started forward, but Jenny stopped him. ‘ Thaisa 
does that every day, and besides, when she gets strung up, 
I put her to work of that kind.’ 

Peter, helpless, said nothing. All that he could register at 
the moment was that Jenny’s accent seemed almost gone. . . . 

The twins came in later. These boys had been babies 
when Peter had last seen them, trussed in a large Paisley 
shawl. Now they were independent beings, strutting about 
in small sailor suits. They were alike, yet Paul was delicate 
of feature like Thaisa; the other, Richard, seemed of the 
spirit of Jenny, composed of rich realities. 

But it was Richard the elder, coming at twilight, who next 
to Thaisa, chiefly interested Peter. The same poetic figure, 
still slender. Full of life and dancing quality. The years 


7 « 


The Third Weaver 


seemed not to have taken from him. Peter saw that nothing 
would for long hold him to the ground. He welcomed 
Peter now to his shack as high-handedly as though he re¬ 
ceived him in the old Victoria Park home. 

4 Sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived, Dagmar, but I 
was visiting friends near by.’ 

Jenny’s face shadowed, and Peter felt a tenseness in the 
atmosphere. 


3 

It came about naturally that Peter stayed on. A corner 
in the twins’ room was fixed for him by Jenny and, utterly 
charmed by this new life, he settled himself down. 

Richard would not hear of money exchange, but Peter 
helped in every way possible — by working in the fields; 
going with Thaisa to distant orchards for wild berries to be 
canned for what might prove a very thin winter; hoeing 
around the hop vines to keep them free from weeds; caring 
for the few chickens; and at times walking behind Richard 
as he drove a hand plow between the rows. 

This last job, however, he soon relinquished. Jenny made 
it known that this was a task she especially liked. And 
Peter knew that so long as she could be near Richard she 
was happy. 

But Peter’s real interest centered in Thaisa. He found 
her now a strange mixture of frankness and reserve, the 
product of all that had gone to make her. A lovely, shy 
young creature, but confused and dominated by Jenny’s 
sharp tongue. 


The Third Weaver 


79 


Working in the fields with Richard, he thought of her 
constantly, and yet tried to turn his thoughts aside, feeling 
danger not only to Thaisa, but to himself. 

Returning to lunch one day from the fields he paused 
when he neared the shack, for in the road Thaisa stood talk¬ 
ing with the young lad of Peter’s first day. ‘ Oh, Peter,’ 
Thaisa cried, ‘ here is Ian Trevor.’ 

The boy — he was, thought Peter, about twenty — 
held out a brown hand. He had a firm grip, and his face 
was strong too with beautiful, clean lines of youth and 
race. 

4 Do you like it out here on the farms ? ’ he asked in straight¬ 
forward manner. ‘I do. . . .’ 

‘ It’s all very interesting,’ Peter replied. Watching this 
boy with the fine, uplifted head and the flowing, blond 
hair, Peter felt old. 

‘ I thought you might come over to a dance tonight out 
Farwell Road,’ said the boy, turning directly to Thaisa. 

But Thaisa’s eyes were fixed on Peter. ‘ I couldn’t,’ she 
said gently. 

* Well, I’ll be off then,’ The boy, with a nod, turned and 
was gone. 

Peter knew. Ian Trevor was devouringly, passionately in 
love with Thaisa. ‘ Who is he ? ’ he asked Thaisa, when they 
were alone. 

‘Mrs. MacFarland’s nephew; he’s twenty-one. He’s 
studying to be an engineer. He means to do great things. 
And he’s a peach of a boy.’ 

‘ Yes, he’s a peach of a boy. He will be some one some 
day. You like him, don’t you, Thaisa ? ’ 


8o The Third Weaver 



She turned deep eyes up to him, and in their depths he 
saw a returning dream as she answered, 4 I just like to play 
with him.’ 


Even with that disclaimer, there came to Peter the instinct 
to leave, to allow something young and precious to develop 
undisturbed. But Thaisa, moving closer, said, shyly, 4 But 
now I like you best of all the world, Peter.’ 

4 

The weather grew warm, and at times Peter, who was 
working harder than ever in his life, would drop into bed, 
too tired to think or even feel. But when September came, 
with cooler days, he revived. 

The boy Ian appeared many evenings, but he stayed only a 
short time, seeing perhaps that Thaisa and Peter knew only 
each other. When he had gone, the two would sit out on the 
steps of the little shack, very quiet. One night they sat close 
together and listened to Jenny within, singing as she moved 
about. Her voice rose on 4 See the Chariot at Hand Here 
of Love, Wherein my Lady Rideth ’ — a song Richard had 
taught her. When she had finished, Richard’s deep and 
moving voice came forth in Shelley’s 4 1 Arise from Dreams 
of Thee.’ The music drifting out into the moonlight stirred 
Thaisa so that she lifted her face, cleared of all confusions, 
to Peter. 

4 When Father sings, he makes me forget,’ she whispered. 

4 Forget what? ’ 

‘Many things. ... I was very ill in Chicago after 
Mother told me — a story. . . .’ Her face grew white and 



The Third Weaver 8i 

her hands began to tremble. He saw that she had suffered 
a driving shock. 

He put his hand on hers, and after a time she grew calmer. 

‘ Father tried to interest me when I grew better and was 
able to just creep about. Something seemed to have died in 
me, Peter, when I learned how unfair life was. I thought 
if I could only grow hard, not care . . 

‘ But you’ll always care too much, Thaisa.’ 

‘Perhaps. Once I thought if only you could get away 
from yourself, not caring that way . . .’ An old phrase 
she had once used returned to her. ‘. . . a holy indif¬ 
ference. . . .’ 

c Beautiful.’ 

‘ Yes, but it’s hard to get that! There’d have to be a lot of 
living and understanding before you came to that, and I 
don’t mean resignation at all, Peter.’ 

‘ Heaven forbid! ’ 

‘ An old tapestry that hung in my old home — did I ever 
tell you about it and how it drew me? Well, there were 
many figures woven in it, and all of them seemed sad and 
lonely, except the dancing one.’ 

‘ Go on,’ said Peter softly. 

‘ I used to think strange thoughts when I looked at that 
tapestry, and I’ve dreamed a lot about it since I’ve grown up. 
There was one figure in the group, the fine self-conscious 
one, the one who danced and had gifts to bestow. But Peter, 
you can only be free when you’re alone in the woods, or 
walking down a quiet road.’ 

He understood her confusions, how she had been played 
upon by harsh interferences and domination. 


82 


The Third Weaver 


‘ I wish you could be left alone, Thaisa. Just obeying your 
own law, like a flower with its face to the sun. Always I 
see you in floating robes, dancing in a meadow.’ 

‘ Oh, Peter, yes — I started to tell you how Father tried 
to interest me back there in Chicago, after I had been ill. 
He took me to a theatre on the North Side where he was 
working as manager. I don’t remember the name of the 
play, but there was dancing and music, and something 
awoke in me. 

‘Afterwards I went with Father behind the scenes. I 
don’t mean that night, but later. And Miss Benson, the 
leading lady, dressed me as Juliet and let me say lines from 
the balcony scene. Then she called Father, and old John 
Lewis, the Shakespearean actor — you know him — came 
too. . . .’ 

She stopped. After a time she went on, ‘ Peter, I can’t 
tell you how I felt! Something opened in me, warm and 
lovely. . . . John Lewis told Father there was material in 
me — that he would help me — and Father smiled. 

‘When we reached home, Mother was in bed and the 
house was very quiet. I told Father I wanted to go on the 
stage, and he smiled again and said that it was the vanity 
in every human being that made him at some time or other 
in his life think he could be an actor. . . . 

‘ But I told him I knew this was real. And he said very 
well, that I should go ahead.’ 

Peter waited. 

‘ I was so happy, Peter, that I couldn’t speak. And then 
Father finished. He said: “ But never expect to look at me 
or speak to me again.” ’ 


The Third Weaver 


83 


Peter’s hands clenched at the cruelty of this. ‘ You should 
have gone ahead with your own life, Thaisa,’ he told her. 

She turned to him. ‘Peter, there was something hard 
and implacable in me. I meant to. Father was very good 
to me, and he tried to explain what being a Worthington 
meant. . . .’ Suddenly she laughed. . What being a 
Worthington meant! Well, there were many things he 
didn’t know. . . . 

‘ Being a Worthington meant little to me, that is, he didn’t 
influence me that way. But when he appealed to my love 
for him and reminded me of a night we walked home in 
the rain — how close we were — how greatly he needed my 
love. . . . Oh, well, I just gave up the stage idea. . . 

Suddenly she rose, and he with her, but it was as though 
she had moved quite away from him. She stood and 
stretched out her arms, thrusting them into a glorious, moon¬ 
lit world. It seemed to Peter that she wanted to press its 
beauty to her breast. And he knew he wanted to press her 
to himself. But of this desire he dared not speak. 

They walked down to the gate. ‘ Through all the prac¬ 
tical living, Peter,’ she told him, ‘ I never forgot you, and 
our ship days together. A mysterious, God-like Peter 
who in some dim and distant future was to show me all the 
beauties of life.’ 

A chill went through him. ‘ I did not expect you to re¬ 
member, Thaisa,’ he answered. 

‘ But you did remember, Peter. . . .’ Perfect trust was 
in her tones. 

God, I wish I had never come, he thought with sudden, un¬ 
accustomed gravity. For here was something of an impos- 


8 4 


The Third Weaver 


sible faith threatening to reach out to hold him — something 
that he feared, and yet that he intensely desired. 

Her voice came again to him: ‘Are you going to stay all 
winter, Peter? Oh, I hope you can.’ 

4 No. I must be getting back to my work. Thaisa, I have 
very little except the driblets coming in now and then from 
my articles.’ 

‘ But that doesn’t matter, does it ? ’ 

‘ I’ve never thought so. Still . . .’ He didn’t tell her that 
money might make things easier for them all. He feared 
to say much to influence her in any way. 

5 

Thaisa began to grow restless. She would walk through 
the woods alone, returning impervious to all; and she would 
enter while dinner was being prepared and Peter and Rich¬ 
ard were talking together. Jenny would speak sharply: 

‘ Where’ve you been ? ’ 

4 Walking in the woods, Mother.’ 

There was no disrespect in her tone, yet Jenny would fly 
into a rage. 4 Now then, my lass, look sharp; keep a civil 
tongue in your head.’ 

There would be a quick, crimson glance at Peter — ap¬ 
parently interested only in Richard’s talk, but really won¬ 
dering whether young Ian Trevor had been walking with 
her. 

Jenny, still in a rage would go on: 4 Take off that dress and 
put on your gingham and an apron and help with supper.’ 

Returning in a few moments, clad in the washed-out ging- 


The Third Weaver 


85 


ham, too short and too tight, Thaisa would go to the stove 
and stir some brew in a big iron pot, her eyes fixed on some 
distance. 

‘Haven’t you a tongue in your head? You’re coming 
your grandmother’s tricks of showing off. And remember, 
I’m as good as you or her any day.’ Jenny kept her voice 
lowered, so Richard might not hear, yet the words went 
straight. 

But it was no use; there was no getting at Thaisa. She 
shut even Peter away. Some tumult was going on under¬ 
neath— that opening of her heart to him, and then this 
sudden closing up. 

Then he saw her one day with Ian. The two figures walked 
close together down the road, and Thaisa’s head was bowed, 
listening. She was, Peter felt, being pulled between the 
call of her once cherished faith in some destiny, and the 
strength of a young and ardent love offering its beauty. 

6 

‘Thaisa, sing for us,’ Richard asked one night after 
supper. 

‘ Not tonight, Father.’ 

‘Don’t ask her to do anything, Richard. She’s a sullen 
besom.’ Jenny turned to Peter. ‘ You raise them, give your 
heart’s blood, and this is your reward.’ 

Again that terrible crimson tide reaching to the grey eyes. 
Peter ached with misery. Strange to him to know these 
feelings. And he felt a resentment. Emotion was a nuisance 
not to be encouraged. 


8 6 


The Third Weaver 


No, Thaisa would not sing, she would not speak a piece 
from Shakespeare, but after she had washed and dried the 
dishes, she went out doors and played hard with her brothers. 
Her laughter rang out gaily; she darted about like a nymph. 

‘ How exquisite she is,’ thought Peter, watching her, and 
desiring her now with a passionate earnestness. He went 
on thinking. ‘ She’s an artist child. An artist. All this love 
business, this family pulling about is not for her. She has 
greater destiny. She should stand alone and self-justified.’ 

And then he went out to her, and put his hand on her 
shoulder. He felt a tremor shake her. She whispered, 
* Peter.’ It was as though she said, ‘ It is you, Peter. . . . 
You! 9 

He felt guilty. Still hadn’t he done something for her — 
cleared her gropings ? 


7 

One day a lady called at the shack — a Mrs. MacFarland 
who was aunt to Ian Trevor. She was a neighbor, and 
Thaisa told Peter that Richard often called on her when he 
wasn’t busy in the hop fields. There was music in her home, 
and books. 

Peter, as he listened, grew interested in the caller. She 
was the type of woman, he saw, who stayed in her twenties 
as long as she possibly could — until, in fact, she was well 
over forty. But Peter felt that Richard found her pretty 
attitudinizing very attractive. 

She came now to say that they were in trouble at her farm 
again. Chicken and egg thieves had drifted in with some 


The Third Weaver 


87 


of the Mexican workers. And it was difficult to secure suf¬ 
ficient pickers, since all the hops — miles and miles of them 
— ripened at the same time. Perhaps Mr. Worthington 
could help her in both matters. 

Jenny remained in her own small room during the visit. 
Thaisa, coming in from feeding the chickens, spoke nicely 
to Mrs. MacFarland and sat down. ‘. . . Tell your mother,’ 
Richard said, * that Mrs. MacFarland has called.’ 

Thaisa went away, returning in a moment. ‘Will you 
pardon my mother, Mrs. MacFarland ? ’ she said. ‘ She has 
a headache.’ 

For a moment Richard looked blackly outraged, and 
Peter wondered at it all. Mrs. MacFarland left shortly, and 
Peter and Richard walked down the road with her. When 
Peter returned with Richard, he observed that Jenny had 
suddenly recovered. She stood on the steps, a pail of water 
in her hand. Richard stopped short at sight of her, a dark 
anger gathering in his face. Jenny braced herself to meet 
whatever was coming. Thaisa appearing from the 
house sensed at once the coming storm. Fear gathered in 
her eyes. 

Peter wondered at the intensities of her emotions. But in¬ 
harmony was terrible to her. He saw her go quickly around 
the house before the storm broke. 

He might help her. But when he reached the back of the 
house, she had quite disappeared. Peter felt that he had 
better go away — that it was all getting too much for him. 

But he stayed on. The hops were baled and sold, and a 
short, idle time ensued. ‘ Couldn’t we have a picnic in the 
woods today ? ’ he inquired of Thaisa one Monday mom- 


88 


The Third Weaver 


ing. Richard and the twins had gone to call on old Ben¬ 
jamin, the farmer mail-carrier, who was ill. 

Thaisa’s face lit; beautiful, it was then, Peter thought, 
with all its sensitiveness revealed — a nobility too. But sud¬ 
denly the veil came down, and the familiar droop saddened 
the young lips, for Jenny was speaking. 

4 I’m sorry, Mr. Dagmar,’ — Jenny never seemed to be able 
to share in the familarity of * Peter ’ — 4 but we must wash 
the clothes today.’ 

She waited, but the retort she evidently expected did not 
come. Thaisa standing near, looking like a young stork in 
her short, gingham dress, did not speak at once. Then — 
4 Shall I sort the clothes ? ’ she asked. 

4 Are you so hardly done to ? Abused, because clothes 
must be washed! ’ 

4 Mother, please. I don’t mind helping.’ 

Silence. 

Peter almost ran from that silence. Peter, the immune 
from sympathetic emotion, felt a hot flash in his head. Why 
couldn’t they stop hammering her? Keep hands off? Til 
carry her away to some mountain top and leave her to the 
stars,’ he thought. 

A voice reached him: 4 Mr. Dagmar.’ 

Jenny was calling to him. He returned. 4 She’ll go to the 
picnic; I’ll fix something to eat.’ 

He looked at Thaisa. . . . Could any young, slight thing 
be so hurt and survive, he thought miserably. ‘Thank 
you,’ she said, 4 thank you, Peter. I don’t care for a picnic 
today.’ 

Straight, tall, white, with deep eyes filled with an amaz* 


The Third Weaver 


89 


ing sea of color and depth. . . . ‘ I’ll sort the clothes,’ she 
said and walked away. 

Jenny, frightened now, looked at Peter. ‘ She’s a hard 
one to understand; always has been for me, at least. She got 
along all right with her lady grandmother.’ 

‘ I suppose so.’ She found no sympathy in his voice. 

‘ She doesn’t realize work has to be done. Still, she 
doesn’t fuss much now, but it used to be she’d never want a 
sign of things that had to be done — washing, mending, 
cooking.’ 

‘ The mechanics of life. ... If she could be spared . . . .’ 
Peter began. 

‘ Eh ? Well, I’m sure I’m at my wit’s end. If I could just 
whip her! ’ 

‘ Oh, you couldn’t do that! ’ He felt his hands clinch at 
the bare thought. What would he do if this woman should 
strike Thaisa P 

* She’d be off like a shot if I did. But if anyone will tell me 
how to handle her . . .’ 

‘ She used to worship her father.’ 

4 Well, that seems to be gone too in a way. I’ve heard it’s 
hard to handle growing girls; but I wash my hands off the 
whole thing.’ 

If you only could, thought Peter. 

8 

Jenny made the rare treat of milk toast for supper and 
insisted afterwards that Thaisa sit outside in the swing with 
Peter. Thaisa thanked her and smiled. Later, when 


90 


The Third Weaver 


the small boys were in bed, the four — Richard and Jenny, 
Peter and Thaisa — sat out in the moonlight together. There 
was relaxation. 

The moonlight touched Thaisa’s young face to a great 
beauty. She was, for the moment, empty of fears. The en¬ 
vironment being happy, she seemed to rise in it. Peter felt 
a pride in her, as though he had fathered her. 

Richard too was at his best. Jenny sat close beside him. 
She did not touch him, but there was the effect of her arms 
about him, holding him. Peter realized suddenly that 
Jenny was still young and vital, more so than he remembered 
in the New York days. Secure in her possession — that 
was it. 

Richard, in high humor, began to tell stories. Peter saw 
the light spring into Thaisa’s eyes; a momentary return of 
that old child glorification of this father. 

Jenny, stirred, stimulated, laughed out ringingly. There 
was a wild spirit in her. She lifted her voice. Sang: 

‘ When Pat went over the mountains, 

His darlin’ for to see; 

His whistle was loud and shrill, 

His song it was to be . . . 

‘ Och, Mary, the mother cried, 

Who is that whistlin’ sure ? 

Och, Mother, ’tis only the wind 
A-whistlin’ through the door.’ 

Gaily she went on, head thrown back. Young, filled with 
some essence. They all sat silent as the last echo died away. 


The Third Weaver 


9i 


Richard told another story. Jenny followed: 

‘ Twas in Wales, as my father told it. . . . About this 
same Mary perhaps — a young girl at any rate. Coming to 
her mother one day, telling bitter, cruel tales of gossip the 
neighbors were spreading about her. . . . 

Well, ne’er thee mind, my lass,” said her mother. 

. . They can’t tal\ it so.” 

But Mother, they have donet . . ’ 

Silence. Thaisa, bewildered. Richard, feeling extreme 
distaste. Peter, vastly amused at the subtlety in the story, but 
fearful of the growing black anger in Jenny’s face. ‘ Now 
then, now then, have I ruffled the delicate Worthington 
spirit ? ’ 

‘I — I don’t understand the point, Mother’ — from 
Thaisa. 

‘ It’s not fitting you should,’ Richard’s tone bit deep, like 
frost. But Jenny flamed high. ‘ Ah, ’tis fine to be in the 
seat of the Almighty. . . .’ 

Richard rose in majesty, stalked into the house. And 
Jenny, wilted, sat on. Bitterly she turned to Thaisa: ‘ You’re 
all as hard as nails! ’ she exclaimed. And Thaisa cried, ‘ Oh, 
Mother, I’m sorry — ’ 

Finally, Jenny also went inside, but no voices came from 
within the shack. Peter felt helpless. And while he was 
pondering, Thaisa spoke. ‘Peter, sometimes things start 
out to be beautiful, but they never end in beauty.’ 

To this he could not reply. He could not deny the ugli¬ 
ness in life. 

‘ Only you are perfect, Peter. I am not afraid with you.’ 



The Third Weaver 


92 




9 

The cloud blew over, and the next week a group of young 
people, friends of Ian Trevor, came visiting Mrs. MacFar- 
land. There was much gaiety. Clear, bright nights; many 
insect calls; the yellow light leaping from the hop furnaces 
where the men opened the doors to put in wood; the sweet 
tinkle of guitars; the picturesque costumes of the Mexicans; 
a stolid Chinaman moving about softly, intent only on his 
work. 

A board floor was put down near the hop house, and here 
the young folks danced. A special party was given. Thaisa, 
in her faded lavender gingham dress, meant to walk over 
after supper with Richard and Peter, but Jenny refused 
to go. 

Immediately on the arrival of the three, Ian came for¬ 
ward, and with a mere nod to Peter drew Thaisa within 
his arms, quite as though claiming his own. Peter, a bit 
thrown back — for he and Thaisa had walked over hand in 
hand from the shack — still was able to admire the lad’s 
straightforward way, his complete honesty. 

They danced, their young bodies in perfect attune. Ian 
was an intense young lover — Peter saw that too — one who 
would proclaim his passion to the world and yet perhaps 
say nothing in words to Thaisa until he had the stars to 
offer her. 

Peter wandered about. His heart felt heavy, and sud¬ 
denly he realized that he was in love with Thaisa. Out in 
the fragrant dark, he pondered this thing life had done to 


The Third Weaver 


93 


him. Because life, he thought, would have no meaning for 
him if Thaisa and this flaming young boy should go away 
together. 

And then he heard a voice speaking in those soft tones so 
different from the harsher ones about. ‘ . . . Peter . . . 
Peter! ’ and he stepped near a lantern that she might see him. 

‘Oh, there you are,’ she cried, and slipped her hand 
through his arm. ‘ Do you know we have never danced to¬ 
gether, Peter! ’ 

The guitars tinkled as he held her close. How very lovely 
she was. And more exquisite in her faded lavender than 
any other though gowned in silk and pearls. 

But this would not do. He must resist. . . . Start off 
very soon to new lands and — forget. 

‘ How beautiful it is tonight, Peter. Is it because you are 
here, and being with you makes all perfect — takes away 
all fear ? ’ 

‘ Little Thaisa,’ he whispered, his lips close to her hair. 
Some intuition warned him of what she would come to 
mean in his life unless now — this hour — he should fly — 
faraway. . . . 

He drew her away to a cloistered space, ringed about by 
trees, shut away even from Ian’s young face that had glow¬ 
ered at them from a spot near the musicians’ stand. 

Simply, Thaisa lifted her face, and he kissed her — a long, 
warm contact in which spirit seemed to flow to spirit and 
flesh warm to flesh. 

They separated, gazed at one another. ‘. . . Thaisa . . . 
Thaisa! ’ Peter breathed. 

‘Yes, I know, Peter. It has always been meant. You 


94 


The Third Weaver 


knew too, and that is why you came here. You have known 
always, haven’t you ? ’ 

Still tingling, still flying, Peter said, 4 Yes, this is love. . . .’ 

4 Love. . . . Oh, Peter, we will go away together, and 
never be parted.’ 

He drew her to him, saying: 4 Thaisa, are you too young 
to look into your heart, deep, and know whether this is love 
or simply loyalty ? ” 

‘Peter! ’ 

4 1 know, beloved, but we must be sure. That boy Ian 
is near your age. He is strong and young and eager as 
the wind.’ 

She had turned white. 4 He is only my friend, while you 
are — Peter. . . ’ 

4 Yes. But I know Thaisa, the little poet.’ 

4 Poet! Because I believe our love was meant from the 
beginning! Haven’t you thought so, too? Is that not why 
you have waited ? ’ 

He nodded, not meeting her eyes. 

4 Peter, we’ll travel the world over. We’ll have love, and 
there’ll be no ugliness anywhere in our lives. Only beauty.’ 

4 Yes.’ 

4 I’m quite ready to go to world’s end with you now.’ 

4 1 want you, Thaisa, more than I ever thought possible 
to want any woman. But there is much to be done. I must 
get busy, get a job.’ 

‘Why?’ 

‘A married man must be financially substantial.’ And 
then he stopped in amazement at himself. 

4 Peter, couldn’t I just be near you in a little studio next 



The Third Weaver 


95 


to yours, and we’d meet and take our dinners together? I’d 
find a job and you’d find a job, and some day, when we both 
had money, we’d get married.’ 

‘ No! ’ He had suddenly grown away from her. ‘ Thaisa, 
I’m going to give you a chance before we marry.’ He tried to 
speak lightly, but a cold wind seemed to blow upon him. 
Marriage! A strange, a terrible bond. ‘. . . And I must 
prepare.’ 

‘ I don’t care that you are poor, Peter, if that is what you’re 
trying to tell me.’ She moved closer to him. ‘ How lovely it 
all is — how very, very lovely. You are my Prince! ’ 

She was like a fair and fragile flower. The touch of her 
soft lips raised to his made him tremble. The fervor in 
him was reduced, and he grew afraid. Her faith in him, 
which had been renewed by his coming, both lifted and 
appalled him. 

But he did not let her see this — only held her close, 
io 

A Mexican thrust an armful of wood into the hop furnace, 
and in its rising flames both Peter and Thaisa beheld Jenny. 
She had come then. But she was standing in a sort of men¬ 
acing intent. Richard and Mrs. MacFarland passed near 
her. 

Peter, afraid of he knew not what, started forward, but 
in a twinkling Jenny had moved, hands outstretched, to bar 
Richard’s way. For a breath she stood, dreadfully dominant 
of the scene. Then: ‘It ill becomes you,’ she cried in a 
passion-filled voice that carried far into the still night, ‘to 


9 6 


The Third Weaver 


leave your wife and children at home whilst you go galli¬ 
vanting. A Worthington too, full o’ pride and honor! ’ 

Richard, Peter saw, stood drooping in an exquisite humil¬ 
iation. Then his gaze, fixed on Jenny, turned to a slow and 
incredulous horror. He said, addressing those about him, ‘ I 
am very sorry for this,’ and lifted his head high. The crowd, 
which had paused, turned away. With a sort of apology, 
he left Mrs. MacFarland and went straight to Jenny. 

* Come,’ he said, ‘ you should have remained at home.’ 

Thaisa and Peter walked beside Richard through the 
divided crowd, Peter acutely aware that Richard had created 
belief in his wife’s mental irresponsibility. 

Ian came up to Thaisa. ‘ Don’t go away, Thaisa,’ he im¬ 
plored. ‘ Just dance with me as though nothing had hap¬ 
pened. People will forget.’ 

Entreaty shone in his eyes, but Thaisa, in a small voice, 
answered, ‘ Thank you, Ian, but I’m going home with my 
father.’ 

In silence, the four went down the road toward home. 
Richard and Jenny went within the shack. Peter said, 
T’m afraid Richard will be cruel. She has hurt his most 
vulnerable place.’ 

Thaisa nodded. Her face was white. 

n 

For days, Richard seemed actually not to see Jenny. And 
Thaisa, helping with the work, looking after the children, 
was almost as silent. Once Ian called, but Thaisa who went 
out to talk with him, returned into the house shortly. 


The Third Weaver 


97 


Peter found it all extremely depressing. He went on 
long, lonely walks, coming back to this deadening quiet in 
the shack. Then Richard aroused himself one evening and 
brought out the chessboard. 

Now, all else neglected, Peter and Richard sat at a small 
table near a window, their eyes fixed intently upon little 
wooden men. Occasionally a hand would make a stealthy 
move, but both were lost to any world about them. 

Peter, at times, was dimly conscious that Thaisa came to 
stand near the table. He felt her wide, grey eyes filled with 
some darkening cloud, fixed upon him, pondering, half 
afraid. Yes, he felt that fear, that questioning. . . . 

But she was a shadow. The wooden men took up all his 
time, his energy and his thought, as they did Richard’s. 
Once though, the high tragedy of Jenny’s face came inter¬ 
vening, and Peter started. Then, seeing Richard still undis¬ 
turbed, his mind returned to the board. 

The third day a cry came from the road — a high, wide 
cry — or was it laughter? Both men rushed out — the 
thought of fire penetrating even their mental isolation. 
There was nothing, only a clear road both ways. But when 
they returned to their place, the chessboard had disappeared. 
Only the bare table stood before them. 

Jenny crouched in a corner, arms folded. Her eyes 
brooded smolderingly on Richard. With a shrug he turned 
away. 


9 8 


The Third Weaver 


12 

Peter went out. He wanted the woods. He looked off 
through a clear space, to where the road led away. He could 
very easily go down that way and so pass out of a danger 
to himself and to another. For to go headlong into a 
bonded intimacy that seemed to bring out all the ugliness 
of which the human heart was capable seemed a fool’s 
blindness. 

But even as he hesitated, down through that same wide 
and open space came Thaisa. When she saw him she 
stopped, and, to his pained amazement, turned and seemed 
herself about to fly, as once before. Then — outside of him¬ 
self— he heard his voice crying her name; he felt himself, 
by some momentum, running to where she was vanishing 
from his sight. And, to the rhythm of his steps, he cried, 
‘. Let her escape — let her escape. . . .’ 

And: ‘ Let me escape — let me escape. . . .’ an answering 
rhythm came, but he went on until he had reached her. He 
put out his hand, drew her to him, and held her slight and 
throbbing figure tight. 

‘ Why are you running from me, Thaisa ? ’ 

She looked at him, her face very small and very cold. 
‘ I am afraid,’ she answered. 4 1 am afraid. . . 

He remained silent. 

‘And you have hidden yourself away from me,’ she 
went on. 

‘ Hidden myself ? ’ 

‘ Yes; bending over silly wooden men.’ 


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99 


This child. . . . How much she knew. . . . How little 
she knew. 

‘Thaisa,’ he cried. ‘Thaisa!’ And buried his face in 
the fragrance of her white neck. 

So they stood in the thick and mysterious woods, stran¬ 
gers to one another, life beating hard in both. Strangers and 
enemies. He felt this strongly. 

But enemies only because they were man and woman, each 
seeking to hold the other — each panting for freedom? 
He did not know. Only that she was very dear and very 
desirable. ‘ Darling,* he whispered, ‘ let’s hurry and be 
together for always.’ 

Perhaps she felt a new tenderness in him. She lifted her 
face. ‘Very well, Peter. . . .’ And then she asked: ‘Can’t 
people, if they take thought, escape being hurt ? ’ 

‘ By taking thought ? Anticipation ? But how can one 
anticipate unless he be a prophet ? ’ He laughed shortly. 

‘ Well, then, by believing signs. ... You have believed 
* all these years, because of our first wonderful meeting, that 
we belonged.’ 

Again he buried his face against hers. . . . 

— She said, ‘. . . Look up, Peter, while we think this out. 
. . . If, by some understanding, we could save ourselves. . . . 
If Mother could understand Father’s love of dancing on 
a hill top. . . Always, it seemed, she came back to that 
picture of him on the Irish moors. ‘ But she’d have to feel 
the winds herself! ’ 

‘ Ah, little poet. . . .’ He gazed sadly at her. ‘ I should 
just run away from everything,’ he told her. 

‘Run away! ’ 


IOO 


The Third Weaver 


* Other lands, other faces. . . .’ he tried to quote, lightly. 
It was dreadful, this thing of the blind leading the blind. 

4 1 know what it is — the answer,’ she said. 4 . . . It’s that 
perfect truth; that complete faith I have in you, Peter. . . 

4 Is it ? I don’t know. . . .’ 

4 1 thought you could tell me everything.’ He saw in her 
eyes the color of her dream — a dream of a man she had 
conjured in her childhood. One of his clear moments came 
to him. 

If Richard had not sent this child wandering in the hard 
days of adjustment in New York, she would not have turned 
to him — this faulty, selfish Peter Dagmar. Oh, it had 
been an exquisite experience, but was it out of life itself, 
or out of one of the blundering errors man constantly 
makes ? 

4 1 know nothing myself, Thaisa,’ he told her at length, 
sadly. 


13 

Soon he knew he must return to Chicago, and he fixed 
the day. He must, however, first make a trip to Portland for 
a much needed valise. 

4 I’ll go with you, Peter,’ Richard said. 

Peter knew disappointment. He had intended to ask 
Thaisa to accompany him. She might still go, but what 
fun they could have had alone! 

Richard at once sent Paul to the MacFarland place for the 
loan of a farm wagon. Jenny watched his every move in a 
sort of dumb entreaty. 


The Third Weaver 


ioi 


Paul came back, hoisted in the farm wagon. Young Ian 
Trevor was driving the black horse. * I’ve errands in Port¬ 
land too/ he cried. 

His glance rested on Thaisa who had come to the door 
and who suddenly, as though called, went down the path 
and stood against the front wheel, head uplifted, to talk to 
Ian. Peter watched them. 

Paul set up a great cry when his father lifted him down 
from the wagon. He too had thought to go to Portland. 
Richard was always loving with his little boys, and now he 
bent and kissed the lad. ‘Next time you’ll go, Son/ he 
said, ‘ — you and young Richard — and we’ll have a good 
time seeing a circus and eating ice cream.’ 

But Paul ran screaming in to Jenny. Next time meant 
nothing to him. In his lexicon there was no future. 

Jenny, the child held against her, stood in the doorway 
watching as the three men drove away. Her eyes were wide 
and hungry. Richard had uttered no word to her. Thaisa 
remained in the road, the blue material of her thin dress 
whipping around her and outlining her slender figure. 
Her head was lifted high and as the men turned, she 
stretched out her hands to them. A full gesture, graceful 
and giving. 

Peter’s eyes remained on her, but young Ian gazed straight 
ahead. Richard, turning suddenly, spoke. ‘ See Thaisa! My 
daughter! She looks as she looked once when she was a very 
little girl and danced for me. . . .’ His voice went low. 
‘ And now this life for her on a hop farm! ’ 

His listeners answered nothing. There was something 
extremely moving in Richard’s falling into a mood of such 


102 


The Third Weaver 


sadness. And it was a mood he sustained till they reached 
Portland. 

Peter forgot all about the new valise and went to think¬ 
ing of flowers or a box of candy for Thaisa. He chose the 
candy as being less perishable to convey back to Ranger, 
but when he went into a shop, to his great confusion he 
could not locate his bill folder. The loose change he car¬ 
ried was not sufficient to pay the bill. And his negligence 
meant getting in earlier tomorrow to purchase his ticket 
and berth. 

He scored his carelessness. The purse, containing prac¬ 
tically all his money, was undoubtedly reposing on his 
dresser in the little room he occupied in the shack. At the 
last moment he had forgotten to pick it up. 

He hastened to rejoin Richard at a hotel in Couch Street. 
Ian, he remembered, had made no engagement except to 
meet them to drive them back to Ranger. 

But there at the hotel, awaiting him, stood both Richard 
and Ian. New beings they seemed, with refreshed and dif- 
erent interests. ‘ Not a word, not a word,’ Richard began 
as though the world belonged to him. ‘Let us go in to 
lunch.’ 

In the restaurant Richard took a chair that approximated 
the head of the table. ‘ I have news for you,’ he announced. 

Peter sat back, awaiting with curiosity Richard’s tidings. 
The waiter’s coming held everything in abeyance for a 
moment. Then Richard told his news. 

‘ Did you know there’s a very good stock company here in 
the Longwood Theatre? ’ he asked. ‘ You didn’t! Well, I 
looked in the theatre today and met some interesting peo- 


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103 


pie. I told of my work in Chicago.’ He paused. ‘ The 
result is I’m going in with them as business manager and 
press representative.’ 

Peter gasped. ‘ And the farm? ’ 

Richard made a large gesture. ‘ I bought it for such a 
song it’s practically paid for. I’ll sell it or give it away, and 
we’ll move here to Portland. Better opportunity for school¬ 
ing for the boys, too.’ 

He was off on his dreams again. ‘ There’s a chance to 
build up a noted group of players. And times are changing; 
the actor is finding a place. Thaisa thought once she wanted 
to be an actress.’ 

‘ Why didn’t she go on ? ’ Ian asked. 

‘ My pride, at that time. . . . But they told me she had 
great talent.’ 

‘ Your pride,’ said Ian directly, ‘ probably gave her a great 
set-back. She might have been on the way to a large place 
by now.’ 

Richard’s eyes flashed; he did not relish criticism. ‘ Ponder 
also that you might not have met her if she had gone on to 
wider fame.’ 

‘That would have been my great misfortune, but I be¬ 
lieve we should have met.’ 

‘ Intended ? ’ Richard asked with humorous intent. 

‘ I can believe that.’ 


14 

In the afternoon they separated, to meet again at four 
for the return trip. Ian wanted to watch progress on a 


104 


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large bridge which was being erected in the city, and Richard 
and Peter were to go on to the theatre. 

‘ Perhaps/ said Ian as he left them, ‘ I’ll be able to get 
over to the theatre for you; otherwise Flood Street.’ But he 
wasn’t able. They found him waiting at the place agreed, 
seated in the farm wagon, the reins hanging from his hands. 
His face was bright, for he was seeing into the future, build¬ 
ing bridges and viaducts — great stone piles swung over deep 
waters. 

The smell of the theatre had stirred Peter’s blood. He 
wanted to get at his play. He thought again interestedly 
of the plot he had evolved when he was still deep in social¬ 
ism. He had told this plot about; and three or four others 
had had a hand in working it out. Peter, therefore, had 
felt if only the play succeeded in fighting its way into actual 
existence, it would be a social rather than an individual cre¬ 
ation. But all that was in the past. He had other ideas now. 

They drove slowly. Once Peter in a winging mood cried 
out: ‘Richard, I’m going to write. Different values, dif¬ 
ferent art forms. Life and man’s needs; his failures, his 
experiments, his own nature. Most of all his visions.’ 

Richard flung his arm about Peter’s shoulder. ‘ Yes, you 
have something to give.’ 

Ian, hunched over, guiding his horse, said nothing. Rich¬ 
ard spoke to him: ‘ We’re leaving you out of this, Ian; but 
you’re young and your dreams are young.’ 

‘ I don’t know. . . .’ Ian turned his deep, calm eyes upon 
Richard. ‘ Dreaming of stone and iron — they’re pretty 
old, and you feel old with them.’ 

The boy was surprisingly mature. Mature, with youth 


The Third Weaver 


105 


still in him. Again the feeling of two young spirits mixing 
came to Peter, but he put the picture behind him. 

Daylight was fading when they drove up before the 
shack. Ian, saying that he was late as it was, did not stop, 
but went steadily on toward the MacFarland farm. 

Thaisa came to the door. ‘ Oh, did Ian go on ? ’ she cried. 
‘ We meant to ask him to stay to supper.’ 

She had changed from the morning dress to a soft, white 
affair with tiny lace ruffles, something Peter had not seen 
before. Old — true — but bewitching on Thaisa. Her dark 
hair had escaped from pins and hung about her brow in 
little curls. Peter wanted at once to take her into his arms. 

Jenny, in the blue cambric she affected, looked up ques- 
tioningly. Only at Richard; no one else mattered. She 
waited while the twins greeted their father with shouts and 
while he for a moment wrestled with them — waited, as 
though ready to shield herself from his biting coldness. But 
instead his voice rang out: 4 What do you say to moving to 
Portland ? What say, Jenny ? ’ 

Jenny stood, the color flying her cheek. For days he had 
addressed no word to her; now this pleasant opening. ‘ To 
Portland ? ’ she cried. 

Joyously he answered, for Richard’s face was already 
turned to new worlds: ‘Yes; we’ll get rid of this place and 
go to live in Portland. I’ve got a job in the theatre.’ 

Jenny said, ‘ I’d like that.’ 

Richard was going on: ‘And Thaisa, if she still wants 
the chance, can go into the theatre.’ 

Thaisa’s eyes grew starry. ‘ Perhaps,’ Richard said, ‘ you 
will be one of the leading actresses of the country.’ 


io 6 


The Third Weaver 


Her hand went to her heart. ‘ Oh, Father, Father / she 
cried, ‘ you won’t keep me back now ? ’ She drew in a deep 
breath and looked off into some ecstatic future. Then re¬ 
turning, her eyes met Peter. ‘ But you see, Father, I’m going 
to marry Peter.’ 


15 

A silence; then young Richard cried out: ‘I’m hungry, 
Mother,’ and pulled a chair toward the set table. This 
awakened Peter, who had been thinking of destiny changed 
or altered and of resultant chaos, conflicts. But it was 
all too abstruse for human calculation. He said: ‘I meant 
to say something to you, Richard — naturally — before 
I left.’ 

Richard answered slowly, ‘ I like you, Peter — you know 
that — but in a measure I’m sorry. Marriage ties one up so, 
and I should have liked Thaisa to have her chance first in 
the world.’ 

Why didn’t you give it to her then when she asked for it ? 
Peter’s eyes asked, but his lips were silent. 

Richard waved them all to the table, his grey mood put 
aside. Jenny, red spots now in her cheeks, moved from 
stove to table happily. Young Richard and Paul, rising in 
the atmosphere, acted in a manner that at any other time 
would have called Jenny’s wrath down upon them, but now 
they went unreproved. 

After supper, Richard’s good spirits continued. The little 
boys were put to bed protesting, the dishes cleared away. 
Richard, with Jenny beside him, went outdoors. The night 


The Third Weaver 


107 


was cool, but their two chairs were drawn close together; 
their voices were soon raised in old-time song. 

Peter said to Thaisa, ‘ Come,’ and silently they went out, 
down the moonlit road that led like a white promise on to 
larger places. 

They went quietly. Once when Thaisa raised her face up 
to his, Peter cried out: ‘ How you change, Thaisa! Just now 
you are like Raphael’s picture of a Boy! ’ 

She smiled happily. 

‘ Thaisa, are you very sure about yourself — and me ? ’ 

‘ Very, very sure, Peter. Especially now since you’ve come 
back to me.’ 

With the harmony now come into the small home, she had 
been liberated. Her fear of life and of the future seemed 
gone. For now all was perfect. 

In Thaisa this desire for perfection was romanticism, he 
knew. The other sane and balanced part of her was help¬ 
less against the depth of her longing for beauty. And no 
cynicism of circumstances could make her demand less in¬ 
sistent. Pushed back, laughed at, deplored as useless bag¬ 
gage, because it never could be satisfied, still the desire would 
be there while Thaisa lived. Not all the pitiable little ruins 
— when beauty about to be reached was snatched away from 
her — could kill this deepest part. 

And was it not just as he had thought before, that, at a 
critical period in her life, this belief and faith in a beauty 
to be found, had come to focus on him ? An unreal thing. 
At least, something not to be taken advantage of now in her 
mature years. 

Again that desire to go — and so leave her to another fate. 


io8 


The Third Weaver 


Her voice came to him. ‘ Why don’t you answer me ? ’ 
Thaisa laughed. 

4 Such a brute! Actually, I didn’t hear.’ 

‘Just a trite thing I said; was there ever such a pair of 
lovers? To meet as we did — you just dropped from the 
sky to comfort a crying child — and then to believe that for¬ 
ever we should belong.’ She raised his hand to her face. 
‘ Like a fairy tale, Peter. I wish I were more beautiful.’ 

‘You have beauty enough, my dear. Why should you 
wish for more ? ’ 

‘ Oh, I don’t know, Peter. I want everything for you.’ 

‘ Thaisa, what of Ian ? ’ 

‘ Just a playmate, Peter. . . . How could he be otherwise 
now that I know that your love was predestined ? ’ 

He spoke quickly: ‘ It isn’t fair, I tell you. God knows 
what I’ve deprived you of. . . . It was too much for mere 
man to believe — the miracle of such a faith.’ 

She turned startled eyes to his, but eyes that still were 
clear. ‘ But you see you did believe, else you wouldn’t have 
come for me. Peter, I don’t want to hurt you, but I had 
started forgetting when you came back.’ 

‘ Thaisa, you must be very sure.’ 

‘ I am very sure. And it is my crown that you have always 
remembered.’ 

‘ Shall we go back ? ’ he asked. 

‘ Oh, your voice sounds tired, Peter. Of course we’ll go 
back.’ 

At the broken gate before the shack, they paused. She 
looked up at him. ‘ It won’t be long before we’ll be to¬ 
gether, will it, Peter ? ’ 


The Third Weaver 


109 


‘You’ll be lonely? But,’ teasingly he said, ‘you’ll have 
young Ian to play with.’ 

‘No, he’s going away too; I shan’t see him till he 
comes back this fall. . . . Maybe I shan’t see him then, 
Peter ? ’ 

‘ I hope not. We’ll be together in Chicago as soon as ever 
I can arrange things there.’ 

‘ And if you can’t come back here, and should send for me, 
I will come if from the end of the world to you.’ 

‘ Romantic small girl. . . .’ 

She put her lips against his, and though he was deeply 
stirred, he kissed her with a tenderness that held no passion. 

‘ Good night, Peter.’ 

‘ Good night, my darling.’ 


16 

While he was still out there alone, looking into the quiet 
night, he heard Jenny’s voice from within talking to Thaisa, 
and apprehension shook him. He realized the murmur had 
been going on for some time. 

‘ You mustn’t expect everything of a man, my girl. When 
your Peter said at supper you were to be married . . 

‘ I told, Mother,’ Thaisa said proudly. 

‘. . . Whoever told, I knew you’d got to be warned. It’s 
your way always to look for everything perfect.’ 

Dead silence — with Peter’s fists clenching in the dark. 

‘ But it’s not in the making of a man to stay faithful and 
straight, and I’d like you to know that, to save yourself from 
further heartache. He’ll expect it of you — your Peter man 


no 


The Third Weaver 


— but you’ll take what you can get of him, a tarnished thing 
at best. Now then, don’t go to stone.’ 

A cry breaking through the stone: ‘Oh, Mother, you’re 
spoiling something beautiful! ’ 

That cry penetrated Peter’s heart. He went within, and 
in the larger room saw Thaisa and Jenny standing, Jenny 
bridling, Thaisa pale as death. 

‘ Anything wrong? ’ Peter asked, looking at Jenny. 

4 Thaisa came in a while ago looking as if she’d seen into 
the Gates of Heaven,’ Jenny rushed in. 4 1 thought then I 
must do a mother’s duty to her daughter. . . .’ 

Poor Jenny! He saw she was quite in earnest. 4 Her 
father’d never take it on himself, so I must. It’s a critical 
period, isn’t it, when a girl’s to get married ? ’ 

And as no one answered, she went on: 4 1 thought I’d shield 
her from the hurts a man’s bound to give a woman. I tell her 
to remember her lady grandmother and what a life she made 
for herself and for her man too, expecting the highest. Then 
there’s her own father; she’s seen the tears I’ve shed. I’ve 
put it all before her — that it’s best she know beforehand — 
and there she stands frozen.’ 

Exhausted, having got in farther than she intended, Jenny 
paused. 

Thaisa turned to Peter, conflict in her young face. He 
said, 4 Thaisa, I love you, but love can hurt, as your mother 
says. I believe that’s all she intends to say.’ 

Jenny cast him a look that he could not understand, but 
again she turned to Thaisa: 4 Aye, he’ll go off adventuring 
time and time again. . . . It’s the way he’s made, my lass, 
and then for you will be an icy silence like your grand- 


The Third Weaver 


hi 


mother or, like me, fight to hold, fight and fight — but ad¬ 
venturing he’ll go! ’ 

4 No,’ said Peter, ‘ no.’ 

Silence. Then Jenny spoke again: ‘ Everybody’s human, 
and your Peter no less so than any other. Remember the Sat¬ 
urdays he kept you waiting in New York and sent you no 
message.’ 

4 Don’t you want Thaisa to marry me ? ’ Peter asked. 4 Are 
you trying to separate us P * 

4 No, no, I think it’ll be a good thing for her to marry; 
she’s too restless — always on the seek. But I want to harden 
her, so she won’t feel the blows.’ 

Thaisa again crying out:' Leave me alone! 9 

4 I’ll do that,’ said Jenny with dignity, and turned. As she 
neared Peter, she put out her hand. ‘ Here,’ she said, ‘ here 
is your purse that you left,’ and as she gave it to him, the 
significant look came again into her eyes. 

Glancing down at the purse, he saw. ... A woman’s 
picture was in the inside flap, a faded likeness with the in¬ 
scription, 4 To Peter and our eternal love.’ So familiar an 
object this, that for long it had ceased to register its presence 
upon his mind. 

But Jenny, though hiding this evidence from Thaisa, had 
drawn her own somewhat unjust conclusions. Hastily, he 
put the purse in his pocket. 

Jenny left. They were alone. Peter ached to say: ‘ Come 
away with me now. . . .’ But he made the first sacrifice in 
his life. 

‘Thaisa,’ he began gently, taking her cold hand in his, 
4 . . . Thaisa, I’m sorry.* 


112 


The Third Weaver 


She looked up at him. ‘ Nothing can shake my faith in 
you, Peter,’ she said. ‘ You know that.’ 

‘ I know that,’ gently. ‘ But, dear, I am going to leave 
you quite alone; go away and not even write.’ 

‘No —no!’ 

‘Yes; I want you to go entirely uninfluenced — to have 
time to look into your own heart, to get a security. At the 
end of a few months you will write to me, or I will write 
to you. And you will be perfectly frank with me! ’ 

‘ Is that the best way, Peter ? ’ 

‘ That is the best way, my beloved.’ 

He saw that she was nervously exhausted, so he kissed her 
gently: ‘ Good night, dear; I’ll be gone tomorrow before 
you wake. But let us believe our future rests with some 
benevolent god.’ 


17 

He had left her to herself. Her life should be clear and 
straight ahead now. He had done the right, the only thing, 
and yet as he sat in the train, speeding toward Chicago, he 
felt sore and aching. 

Darling Thaisa, with the grey eyes upturned so confid¬ 
ingly to his! He put the vision aside to still the pain within. 

Still the intolerable ache endured as he left the train to go 
at once to his studio on the North Side. He opened the door. 
Dust was thick everywhere, and on the floor there lay three 
five days’ notices. 

He went at once to the agent and paid part of his rent, thus 
depleting himself. . . . Afterwards, he paid a visit to the 


The Third Weaver 


113 

Art Magazine on Michigan Avenue and suggested an article 
on ‘Art as a Liberator.’ He secured the order, finished 
the paper in time, and had some money left to go on with. 
At once, he settled to writing on the play that had been in 
the back of his mind. For a month he gave himself up to his 
creation. 

Then suddenly he was finished, and the play — a poor 
thing — pigeonholed. For all the time that he had been 
working, the hunger had been making itself felt. A hunger 
for Thaisa. 

This hunger would lessen, he knew. He determined to 
find a hard job and let the fever abate. 

He ran down Foster, who was about to start a trade jour¬ 
nal, Illumination. Foster was a millionaire, restless and 
with ideals beyond his practical handling. Peter at once 
asked for a sub-editorship of the magazine. 

Foster agreed: ‘ But you mustn’t chuck it when it ‘ bores ’ 
you. I’ve heard you talk before.’ 

‘ I’ll stick,’ Peter promised. 

They went into business then. Foster had rented offices in 
the Monadnock Building. It was agreed that much of Peter’s 
writing could be done at home; but if he were really to earn 
his first seventy-five dollars a month, he would have to spend 
some hours every week going after advertising. Foster, who 
had inherited his wealth, had a clever money sense. 

‘ I never sold anything in my life,’ said Peter. 

‘ Sooner you try the better, and the commission will be 
liberal.’ 

Peter gave himself six months for this experiment, and he 
stuck to it determinedly. There was, he found, little time 


The Third Weaver 


114 

for play. Foster, having started the experiment, would soon 
tire, but he wanted the journal to pay. 

Peter spent hours in the Crerar Library, following the his¬ 
tory of light for the world, and after doing this, he had to 
work over his notes into easy readable articles, so that electric 
light fixture merchants should take to them as to a dime 
novel. This was Foster’s injunction. 

Then Peter spent hours chasing down fixture people, fancy 
candle houses, even electric stove concerns. Foster, before 
the interest quite left him, elucidated that the promising 
feature of a magazine like Illumination was that there were 
so many side lines, so many to be interested in buying 
advertising. 

* What the devil am I working this way for ? ’ Peter asked 
himself one day. ‘ Just to forget ? ’ He was walking down 
Wabash Avenue, and a sudden idea for a new play struck 
him, sweeping all before it, till he came back to earth and 
realized he was on the way to an interview with a large firm 
that manufactured 4 religious ’ candles. . . Yes, what the 
devil am I doing this for ? * he asked himself again and saw 
a sign that read:' Let Hartman feather your nest! * 

He grinned, but there was a twist at his heart. 

18 

One night he took Myra Kenyon to the Radical Club to a 
dance. Myra was a gay sort, pliable and moody. She was 
the studio type, always to be found at one party or another 
— never seeming to require sleep. 

Peter asked her to this affair because she fitted in with his 


The Third Weaver 


US 

present way of living. Apparently she asked nothing, and 
he had nothing to give. But she opened fire on him at once. 

‘ Peter, you’re a stick lately,’ she told him when they were 
in the crowded hall with its flaming gas jets along the walls, 
its uneven, shining dance floor. 

‘ Oh, come on, that’s not true. I’m a hard worker, that’s 
all.’ 

‘No, you’ve lost your spark. You’re getting to be as 
average as a ribbon selling clerk — just as standardized. You 
might almost be thinking of settling down! ’ 

‘That would be terrible, wouldn’t it? . . . Well, let’s 
dance.’ 

They danced, stopped, looked about. Over near the wall, 
talking to one of Chicago’s woman writers, was a man with a 
long, black beard. He was orating; Christ had been born in 
him again and he had a message. . . . Laughter greeted 
him, and with much dignity he arose and walked toward the 
door. Larkin, the socialist, spoke to him as he passed out. 
Larkin was more courteous to this man than to any of the 
newspaper crowd who came here to dance. 

A lull in the music. Peter left Myra and went downstairs 
to the saloon. Men were crowded about the bar. Women 
shortly would be there too, edging about the foot rail and 
thinking themselves very modern and wicked. 

Peter took a drink and returned upstairs. Myra, coming 
to him directly, informed him that a man named See who 
came from England was about to talk. ‘ He’s a whiz,’ she 
finished, having picked up that information. Peter listened, 
his arm about her. She stood very close, so that her head 
rested against his shoulder. 


The Third Weaver 


ii 6 

Suddenly, while the dignified chap on the platform talked, 
Peter saw a picture. Thaisa dancing with the young lad 
Ian. Two perfect bodies, beautiful and complementary. 

A pang shook him. Unceremoniously he moved Myra 
from him. She swayed a little and cast at him a strange, 
intense look, beyond his understanding — a look that sur¬ 
prised him by its suggestion of undercurrents. 

He took a long walk. 


19 

But as the months went on, the image of Thaisa began to 
grow less poignant. There were many interesting things 
to do, and he found it rather fun to write silly, educational 
articles for the trade journal. He grew not to mind very 
much bearding men in their offices and selling advertising 
to them. 

Then there were the studio parties — and girls, always 
new girls, with their airs and their graces and their little 
gestures toward a larger freedom that they could not name. 

Life, then, was going on very equably. Far lands began 
to beckon again; he felt the desire to wander. He thrilled 
to the thought of long rides on the sea, climbs over moun¬ 
tains, weeks spent in quaint villages. . . . 

He began to make his preparations. Then, returning one 
evening to his studio, he found a letter slipped under his 
door. The envelope was postmarked Portland. From 
Thaisa at last! 

He sat for a long time before opening the envelope. Para¬ 
doxical emotions beat within him. He looked at the long 


The Third Weaver 


n 7 

black valise awaiting his packing for his new flight. . . . 
And he thought of Thaisa and her loveliness. . . . Man’s 
eternal conflict, he thought. . . . 

At length, he opened the letter. It was written by Jenny. 
She began: 

Dear Mr . Dagmar: 1 remembered your address, because 
once you told it to Richard, and l overheard. Ym writing 
now to tell you about Thaisa. Of course she doesn't \now 
about this and 1 trust you never to tell her. 1 must say Ym 
sorry 1 talked to her about things as I did when you were here 
that last night; she seemed very unhappy for days. I thought 
if she \new what a woman mostly has to face, things 
wouldn't come so hard on her afterwards.. I see now l 
should have kjiown better. 

I never told her about the picture, and 1 suppose she still 
believes you a saint and that your love story was meant and 
things like that. We moved to Portland. But some way or 
other, she doesn't seem to be herself. Looks strange and 
puzzled, like she was lost on a desert island. We rented the 
farm and moved here .. 1 talk and talk to her, but she doesn't 
answer, only runs away from my voice. Yve grown nervous 
she may just fade away. The truth is, she's still honing after 
you, and Ym pocketing a mother's pride to write this to you. 
1 think if you should get together again everything would be 
all right. Richard is blaming me as usual. 

Yours truly, 

fenny Worthington. 


1048 Euclid Avenue. 



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118 

Peter sat on, the letter in his hand. ‘. . . Talk and talk 
to her.’ ... Yes, Jenny would do that. He had gone away, 
thinking to leave Thaisa alone, to herself. But she was not 
being left alone, not while Jenny lived. 

A great, protective emotion filled his heart. On the crest 
of this, he went to his desk and wrote a letter which read: 

Dearest Thaisa: You have never written to me, so now I 
am writing. I want you, beloved. Thaisa, will you marry me 
at once? And if you can find it in your heart to grant me this 
gift, could you come here? At present, it is impossible for 
me to leave Chicago. I love you, Thaisa. 1 need you. 

Peter. 

So he called to her in such a way that her spirit would be 
healed, and her faith rise and shine, justified in itself. 

Then he rose, lifted the black bag from the couch and put 
it away on the high shelf of his cupboard. 

20 

‘ Is that a letter from Peter Dagmar? ’ Jenny asked; and 
Thaisa perforce answered ‘ Yes.’ 

‘ What is it he says ? ’ She put out her hand, while Thaisa 
stood, brows knit. . . . Jenny calmly read the letter not 
intended for her eyes. 

‘ Well, he’s keeping the vow you told me about. ... I 
call that romantic. . . .’ 

So Jenny, as always, went on and on. But she had started 
something she must finish: writing that letter to Peter — 
withholding many things —and Peter’s answer. Perhaps 


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ii 9 


she had been too impulsive, but Thaisa in her quiet ways 
had irritated her beyond words. And frightened her. And 
Richard had said hard words of blame to Jenny. . . . Best 
if Thaisa went away. 

‘ You’re going, aren’t you? * 

Thaisa did not answer. 

‘ You know you can’t just go wandering all over the coun¬ 
tryside with that young Ian Trevor.’ 

Memories of hill tops, glowing sunsets, returned to the 
girl. Perfection, with Ian’s young idealism matching her 
own. Not love-making as she knew love-making through 
Peter, but a meeting of dreams. ... To think it all out, to 
get things in perspective. If Jenny would only stop talk- 
ing! . . . 

‘You’ve wanted Peter Dagmar all your life; you’ve 
dreamed of him, thought you were made for one another. 
Now the way’s made clear, and you don’t seem eager any 
more.’ 

‘ Mother, let me think.’ 

‘And where does that get you? Let you go mooning 
around you mean, driving a body crazy. And as for Ian 
Trevor — tell me, are you in love with him now ? ’ 

‘ If I could go out into the woods and get clear thoughts! ’ 

‘ Speaking in poetry, like your father and your lady grand¬ 
mother! Nay, my girl, face life. Ian Trevor is yet to do 
his building. That’s why he doesn’t want to tie himself 
down. And his aunt told some one, and I heard of it — it’ll 
be many years before he will be able to tie himself down.’ 

‘ Why are you so anxious to have me go away ? ’ 

Clever Jenny shrugged her shoulder. ‘Anxious! Do as 


120 


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you please. It’s the wild longing in you I feel. It’s that the 
love of this man, calling to you, will still your wildness and 
your strange ways that I can’t cope with and that your 
father blames on me.’ 

4 I’m sorry. . . 

4 There’s another word — Richard used it the other day — 
fulfillment. It’s fulfillment you’re craving, and when you go 
and marry, as Peter Dagmar asks you, it’ll be wonderful 
and beautiful. Meeting him in the little park as you did, as 
though it was meant. . . .’ Thus Jenny cannily fanned into 
life again the dying spark of a child adoration, cannily re¬ 
vived the waning faith in a love ordained. 4 Wonderful 
and beautiful and meant, as you well know,’ she finished. 

At last Thaisa spoke : 4 You must be right, Mother.’ And 
then softly: 4 Peter knows. And out of his love and long¬ 
ing, he has sent for me.’ 

4 That’s right,’ said Jenny, not meeting Thaisa’s wide eyes. 
4 Now we’ll go ahead and get you ready.’ 


PART FOUR 


I 

O N the fifteenth of May, Peter went to meet Thaisa in 
answer to her telegram giving the hour she would arrive in 
Chicago at the Union Depot. Never, he thought, had he 
been so nervous. The marriage license was in his pocket; 
it felt heavy as lead. 

Even though it was May, a biting wind was abroad, and 
Peter hoped Thaisa would be adequately dressed. Already 
he was getting domesticated, he told himself. When her 
train was announced, he went with an unsteadily beating 
heart out to the wide platform. 

Thaisa alighted. He saw her down the steps and noticed 
with relief that she was wearing a long coat which was 
warm and comfortable. As she walked through the turn¬ 
stile, he went breathless. How young she seemed, how im¬ 
mature! But in her eyes, as they came to rest on his, lay the 
old perfect faith. 

She put her hands in his. 4 You called me, Peter,’ she be¬ 
gan, 4 and I came.’ 

4 Yes, I wanted you, Thaisa.’ 

He took her bag, and they walked the length of the station. 
4 How did you know our address in Portland, Peter ? Did 
Father write to you ? ’ 

He nodded. He might as well implicate Richard; better 
than saying anything of Jenny. Thaisa must never sus¬ 
pect that Jenny had a hand in this meeting, this coming mar- 

121 



122 


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riage. He knew Thaisa’s pride. If she knew — barely sus¬ 
pected — she would turn from him this moment and return 
to Portland. 

He led the way to the little station restaurant. Holding 
her arm against his, he said, ‘ We’ll be married after lunch, 
darling, and then, what do you say to a little trip ? It can’t 
be much — perhaps to Milwaukee.’ 

She stood perfectly still, light filling her face. ‘ Oh, that 
will be heavenly, Peter. But don’t you think I ought to 
have a new dress first. Father gave me ten dollars.’ 

‘ I’ll buy your dress,’ said Peter in solemn tones. 

Thaisa, it proved, was not very hungry. But Peter insisted 
on something, if only coffee and toast. ‘ Could we be mar¬ 
ried in church, Peter ? ’ she asked. ‘ And shall we buy the 
dress before or after ? ’ 

‘ We can be married in church, and we’ll buy the dress 
afterwards. I want to marry you as you are now.’ He in¬ 
tended to say * as you came to me ’ but something humorous 
put down this hoary sentimentality. 

‘ Peter, I should like to be married in the old church on 
Michigan Avenue. Do you think it will be possible ? ’ 

‘ Anything can be made possible for you, Thaisa.’ He was 
indeed filled with an amazing tenderness for this young 
girl in the too tight coat and crushed felt hat. 

They went to Peacock’s and bought a narrow wedding 
ring, plain like gold satin, and then, taking an Indiana Ave¬ 
nue car, they rode to the church Thaisa had once attended. 
There they were married by a minister, new since Thaisa’s 
time. They stood before the altar and exchanged their vows 
in a very big, empty church, and when they were finished the 


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123 

minister congratulated them, and they walked out into the 
light again. 

They gazed now into a day upon which the sun shone 
softly. Michigan Avenue was lovely with its great 
stone houses and broad paths. ‘ Now,’ said Peter, trying 
to speak gaily, though he felt very serious, ‘we’ll outfit 
you.’ 

‘ Husbands are supposed to do that, aren’t they ? ’ Thaisa 
asked, and then Peter laughed. 

‘Yes, those few words spoken by that long-faced man 
make it perfectly moral for me to buy your clothes.’ 

‘ But marriage means a great deal more.’ Thaisa spoke 
anxiously. ‘ That is, if you go at it right.’ 

‘ Now Thaisa, please, don’t start in by intending to make 
me a good wife.’ 

‘ I won’t, Peter.’ 

Somewhat startled at that, he turned to look at her. They 
had taken a car back to the Loop, and Thaisa sat very small 
and wan-looking in her tight coat and funny hat. 

‘ But don’t make me a bad wife.’ He spoke lightly, but it 
was all strange and rather frightening. . . . Bound to one 
another for life! 

‘ Not that either, Peter.’ And then she paused and sud¬ 
denly lifted her grey-black eyes to his. ‘ What’s the use of 
saying one thing and meaning another? I think you’re 
afraid of my being romantic.’ 

The first smile he had seen since her arrival touched her 
lips. It would be the devil, he thought, if she hadn’t a sense 
of humor; and stopped, appalled at really how little he 
knew her. 


124 


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But after a time, she was able to tell him why she had 
been so serious. ‘ Peter, your letter came when I was all at 
sea. . . .’ She paused, as though contemplating further con¬ 
fidence; then stopped, and a great fear touched him. He 
cried: ‘ But Thaisa, you came only because you love me ? 
. . .’ And while he awaited her answer he wondered if he 
should have looked into Jenny’s letter more. He knew she 
always had motives — kept hidden. 

Thaisa said: ‘Your letter showed me my love.’ She did 
not add that Jenny had cleared the way. 

2 

They went into one of the big shops and bought a blue 
dress cunningly touched with mandarin red that quite trans¬ 
formed Thaisa. Peter saw she was a beauty. He thought 
her taste excellent for one who had been buried in the coun¬ 
try for any number of years. 

Afterwards they went directly to his studio, for Thaisa 
admitted she was a little tired. ‘ An amazing day,’ he said. 
‘ No wonder you’re let down.’ 

At the door of the studio, Thaisa paused and looked up at 
Peter. ‘ It is beautiful — and it’s you.’ 

‘ I hadn’t thought it beautiful,’ he returned, and began 
all at once to wonder about practicalities. There was the 
sanitary couch that opened wide, but the springs were not 
very resilient; two arm-chairs, his desk near the window, 
and a worn carpet that had once matched the madras cur¬ 
tains in rose color. Now it had faded into two different 
hues, and the contrast, he thought all at once, was not 


The Third Weaver 


harmonious. The kitchenette was divided from the studio 
proper by a portiere that hung limply. 

But from the balcony, over the kitchenette, there hung 
Peter’s most prideful possession, a prayer rug of wistful 
colors, soft as velvet. 

He hoped Thaisa would notice this beauty before ex¬ 
amining the kitchen utensils. And had he washed his 
breakfast dishes that morning? 

Thaisa did go straight to the rug and stood entranced be¬ 
fore its beauty. ‘ Peter,’ she said at last, ‘ this reminds me of 
the tapestry in Manchester — with the boy who danced. 
Peter, I love it.’ 

He was pleased, but he replied only: ‘ I’m glad you like it, 
Thaisa, its yours now, you know.’ 

They went into the kitchen. The dishes were there, 
unwashed, but Thaisa did not notice. She turned on the 
tap above the small porcelain sink, and he remembered how 
she had been compelled to draw from a well all the water 
used by the family in Ranger. ‘ I’ve just got used to running 
water in Portland,’ she remarked. 

They returned to the studio. ‘ I’ve only kissed my wife 
once,’ he said and drew her to him. Suddenly, on a serious 
note, he held her off — looked at her. ‘ Thaisa,’ he cried, 
‘ we’ve come to the real thing. . . 

‘ Yes, Peter.’ She was very grave but she was happy too. 
Free as never before — and strong. She would like Ian to 
know of this escapement that had come to her. Ian! A 
swift, sudden-springing wind passed over her; a voice seemed 
to call. 

Then she remembered that she was Peter’s wife and that 


126 


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he loved her and would show her the way. And life 
stretched rosily before her. . . . 

3 

Thaisa woke Peter the next morning. She was like 
a happy child who has achieved. ‘ Peter, Peter,’ she cried, 
‘ wake up. Do you smell the coffee ? ’ 

He awakened — slowly at first — then with a start. There 
she stood before him, clad in a pink dress, and a white apron. 
He remembered now that she had bought these things 
yesterday. It seemed a strange, too domestic outfit in this 
place. Then his eyes traveled to her face, and he did not 
see domesticity written there — only a shining love. 
He jumped up. ‘ Oh, Thaisa, darling, don’t spoil me,’ 
he cried. 

‘ I didn’t get up early and make your breakfast to spoil 
you, Peter,’ she said very slowly. ‘ Do you know why? ’ 

He remained silent. 

‘ Because I love you.’ 

‘ Beloved! . . .’ he answered. 

They kissed, an ecstasy upon them. . . . After a time 
she ran away from him into the kitchen, and soon he fol¬ 
lowed. It looked to him like a new place. The shelves held 
newspapers cut in a fringe, and the small two-hole gas stove 
had been polished till it shone. ‘You see, Peter,’ she said 
slowly, ‘ whatever else you need, right now you need a good 
housekeeper.’ 

She filled him with new surprises. Housekeeper indeed, 
with her grey eyes quite black now and that drifting bit of 


The Third Weaver 




color in her cheek. First of all, he thought her histrionic; 
he felt he wanted to think of her as that last of all, too. 

Their breakfast eaten, Peter suggested that the dishes be 
left till they returned from their honeymoon trip to Milwau¬ 
kee, but this Thaisa would not have. ‘ They are ours,’ she 
said. ‘ I don’t mind doing them.’ 

So Peter helped clear up. ‘ We’ll eat our meals out for 
a while, Thaisa. You know I have a regular job.’ 

‘ Let’s eat at home till 7 get a job,’ she answered. 

He paused on that thought. ‘ Why, I didn’t intend you 
should get a job, Thaisa.’ 

‘ But what could I do here alone all day, Peter ? ’ 

‘ That’s true; let’s move then. I don’t want you to get a 
job, ever.’ 

Thaisa laughed. Peter loved that tinkling sound. ‘ You’re 
as old fashioned, really, as Father is.’ 

For the first time since her arrival, Peter remembered her 
background. ‘ I didn’t realize you’d made a clean cut, 
Thaisa.’ 

‘ Father wouldn’t have cared so if you had come for me, 
Peter. The other way hurt his pride. But Mother was all 
right; she gave me my carfare. And at the last, Father gave 
me that ten dollars.’ 

‘Thaisa, I did not want to get into life again there in 
Portland. I wanted us to start clear and unconfused, alone.’ 

She nodded. ‘ I quite understand, Peter. And when you 
called, I came. You see what little pride I have.’ 

‘ You are all pride.’ He regarded her seriously. How 
filled with surprises this girl was. Why had he not seen 
deeper into her when he was in Ranger ? 


128 


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‘ Let’s start early on our honeymoon. And Thaisa, we’ll 
stay over night at the Plankington Hotel.’ 

She clasped her hands against her breast, a way she had 
when stirred. ‘ Oh, Peter, how very wonderful! And I can 
take my best nightdress along.’ 

She went at once to her bag and withdrew a sheer white 
garment, beautifully embroidered. ‘ I did this myself dur¬ 
ing that first long winter in Ranger,’ she told him. And he 
remembered the utility seam of Aunt Sarah’s regime 
Something beautiful when finished. Strange these memo¬ 
ries should come back now. She had woven herself deeper 
into his life then he had realized. 

4 

Thaisa talked, and for the first time he had a glimpse into 
her real self. Removed out of Jenny’s dominant reach, she 
was a different person. Intelligent — and her mind ranged 
far; independent it was, and given to quick observations. 

A great pride filled him. 

In Milwaukee they went at once to the Plankington Hotel 
where Peter engaged a room. ‘ If we could hear music,’ 
Thaisa said, ‘ after we’ve had dinner, it would all be perfect.’ 

‘ We’ll see to that,’ he said. He was filled with a desire 
to give her anything she might ask. He went so far as to 
desire to protect her from all outside harshness — from the 
very world, in truth. He told her so. 

She leaned closer to him, and he marveled at himself — at 
his complacency in her acceptance of him as leader, and in 
this acceptance, the chain that would bind him for always. 


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129 


He, who had preached so long and had certainly practiced 
the way of freedom! 

4 Our love was meant,’ she whispered, and he looked down 
in astonishment that the words could contain so deep a 
passion, . . meant from the beginning — though I will 
admit, Peter, that for a time, after you left Ranger, I got to 
believing less in its destiny.’ 

Hurt, as though something subconsciously treasured had 
been touched, he said, ‘ Thaisa, what did you do after I left 
Ranger ? * 

‘ I was terribly lonely. Then Ian came back, and we 
played ball and walked in the woods. We talked of many 
things. . . .’ 

* Did he make love to you, Thaisa ? . . .’ 

‘ No,’ she stopped in thought. ‘ No — he didn’t. I’m sure 
he didn’t,’ she added, in such hesitant manner that he got a 
frightful shock of understanding. He knew Ian’s caliber well 
enough to realize that the boy would not say anything defi¬ 
nite until he could lay the gifts of the world at Thaisa’s feet. 
He would believe that Thaisa would feel a bond as did he — 
unspoken, but some day to be ratified. 

And Thaisa, holding Peter in her life, would not get 
significances, would not see clearly. . . . 

He trembled. 

But now her hand stole into his, calming him, and her 
voice was whispering, ‘ I love you, Peter.’ 


130 


The Third Weaver 


5 

They tramped over Milwaukee, boarded trolley cars, 
alighted, walked by the lake. The day was windy and cold, 
but of this they took no thought. Their happiness was too 
deep for any marring. In the evening, after dinner, they 
went to hear music as Thaisa had wanted — an orchestra in 
Forham’s Hall conducted by an eccentric Italian leader. 

High up in a box, hands clasped tight, her head very close 
to his shoulder, they sat listening. Neither knew whether 
the music was good or bad; they knew only that they were 
together. 

And yet he was not so entranced as to be without analysis. 
He had never, he knew, felt this way with any other woman, 
and he had believed at times that he cared very deeply. . . . 
What was this about marriage — this spiritual bond — that 
gave a different feeling ? 

It meant something — a very great deal. All the talking 
about it, all the looking at it from without its portals, told 
one nothing. He could not have believed that a few words 
spoken by a portly man, with a face that suggested a gentle 
lamb, could have made this difference. 

Naturally the words didn’t matter; it was a thread run¬ 
ning deep — a cord that made a bond from which one could 
not easily turn aside. And if one did, for any reason, 
the bond still existed. For always, Peter felt, he must be 
married. 

He aroused himself from this sentimental mood and found 
his wife sitting there beside him, as always she would be 


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131 

close beside him. I can’t help it, he groaned. I want her 
there always. 

In their room at the hotel, Thaisa unpacked her bag. On 
top lay the filmy gown. She held it against her and then 
suddenly turned to Peter, who was sitting on the bed, smok¬ 
ing a cigarette. 

‘ Peter,’ she said, ‘ would you like me to do a little of Juliet 
for you ? ’ 

‘Do — Juliet? ’ 

She came to sit by him. ‘ Yes, I should love to — just for 
you, Peter.’ 

‘ Please then.’ 

She removed her dress. Above her white undergarments 
she slipped the loose gown; she took down her hair, braided 
it quickly so that it fell in long ropes on either side of her 
face, and turned to Peter. Miraculous! She was no longer 
Thaisa, but Juliet. 

Exquisite, her face lifted, her eyes deep in dreams. She 
began to speak in golden tones. . . . 

‘ Romeo, O Romeo. . . .’ 

Perfect. Gifted she was, richly so. He wanted to take her 
in his arms, hold all her sweetness to his breast. But he 
desisted. And he thought, ‘ No matter what, she must have 
her chance. I must never stand in the way.’ 

And he fell asleep that night, musing on ways and means 
of sending her to dramatic school, which meant eventually 
that she would go out into the world — away from him. 


132 


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6 


Peter reluctantly returned to work the next day, leaving 
Thaisa alone. But through all his activities, he was conscious 
of her, back there in his studio, a possession at once lovely 
and beyond price. 

The mood persisted as the days went. Once in the glow of 
it, he wrote to Richard and told him something of his feel¬ 
ings. He appealed to Richard’s romantic spirit by confess¬ 
ing how deep his need had suddenly grown for Thaisa, and 
how he had sent for her out of this need. It had not occurred 
to him to answer Jenny’s letter. 

Really, it was no business of Richard’s what Thaisa did. 
Still, she was his daughter. And suddenly the sweat broke 
out on Peter’s forehead. Children! 

Marriage and children. There was Thaisa in his home 
back there over the river, wearing her little house dress and 
ruffled aprons, clearing up the breakfast dishes, and in a 
little while perhaps there would be Thaisa holding his child. 

He sheered away from the purely romantic, but a man’s 
own child seemed to him the very essence of romance. And 
what a welding of this thing termed marriage! 

7 

After greeting Foster, that first day, and telling him the 
great news, Peter settled to work on an article for the 
magazine. He worked feverishly all day, not only writing 
but making half a dozen calls regarding advertisements. 


The Third Weaver 


i33 


And underneath, he craved only to return to Thaisa for some 
reassurance that she had not fled from him. 

At six, he was back at the studio. Thaisa opened the 
door to him, held up her face and kissed him. ‘ Oh, how 
terribly long you’ve been away!’ she cried. And he 
smiled. 

She was there — Thaisa, the beloved, grown suddenly to 
be the eternal one. 

They ate dinner together at the little kitchen table, a feast 
of creamed chicken and watercress salad with good coffee. 
4 You are more gifted than I thought, Thaisa,’ he told her. 
Seeing her shining eyes, he could scarcely believe she was that 
girl in Ranger who had gone so distrait, running the scale 
from high mood down to blackest depression. 

Wifehood had brought her into the right atmosphere for 
flowering. How magnificent! Then he caught himself. 
‘ I must take marriage more naturally,’ he thought, 4 just as 
Thaisa is taking it.’ 

After dinner they went out, just to walk. Every act, for¬ 
merly a commonplace, was now touched with magic. He 
held her arm and they walked toward the lake. They spoke 
little, but occasionally she would draw close to him and look 
up into his face, her eyes deepening. 

And each time she did so, an emotion shook him and he 
held her closer to his side. 

They stopped in a drug store for hot chocolate. 4 1 could 
just as well have made this at home,’ she said. 4 1 bought 
cocoa today.’ 

In utter consternation, his lips fell open. ‘Thaisa, of 
course you had to buy things, and I didn’t give you any 


134 


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money.’ All at once he felt humble. Would he go through 
life being such a fool ? 

She took the sting out. ‘ Will you give me some now, 
Peter, or when we get home? I kept an account of what 
I paid out.’ 

‘ When we get home.’ 

In the studio he emptied his pockets. ‘Not much; my 
earnings aren’t large, and I’m not practical.’ 

‘ Peter, I hate to think of you in a job! You should write 
as the spirit moves you; be free.’ 

‘ I have a wife now.’ 

‘ Not a burden though. I want life to go on for you just 
as always.’ 

Then in her funny little way she came to the practical. 
‘ If you don’t mind, I want to study out a paper pattern. 
Dresses are so expensive ready made, and I shall need more 
than one.’ 

He nodded and went to reading. After a time, he looked 
up from his book. She was kneeling on the floor with 
numerous tissue-paper puzzles spread all about her. 
Her brows were knit in concentration. He thought of 
her last night in the room of the hotel and her glowing 
Juliet. 

Marvelous creature, a wife. 


8 

Every night for a week, Peter returned to Thaisa and her 
paper patterns. After supper, she would ask him what he 
thought this notch meant or that symbol. And he would 


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135 


put his pipe aside, get down on the floor beside her and try 
to help straighten the maze. 

And then all at once she blossomed out in her tissue- 
paper finery. Not really tissue-paper, but lovely things 
springing from those notches and triangles carefully 
matched together. 

Thaisa explained that these delicate morsels were her sum¬ 
mer dresses. 4 But wherever did you learn to sew ? ’ Peter 
asked. 

4 1 never learned except on long seams. But this is art, 
like the embroidery. I’m sorry our sewing time is over.’ 

' Our sewing! ’ 

She was sitting near him on the couch. Now she laughed. 
4 Have I insulted my husband ? But wasn’t it beautiful our 
being together that way ? ’ 

4 No matter what the job, a community of interest ? ’ 

4 1 suppose that’s what I mean.’ She paused. 4 And I’m 
sure you never helped another girl make her dresses.’ 

Depths and subtleties beyond him. But he replied merely, 
4 I’m sure I didn’t.’ 

4 No, you’d only do that for your wife. And then you 
wouldn’t feel it beneath your masculinity.’ 

She turned to look at him, and Peter suddenly stopped 
his laughter. 4 Are you of a jealous nature, Thaisa ? ’ he 
asked, plunging. 

4 No — I don’t think I get jealous. I feel just hurt; words 
stop in me.’ 

4 That’s worse.’ 

4 Is it, Peter ? ’ She gazed up at him with one of her little 
girl worshiping looks and fell to twisting her wedding ring. 


i 3 6 


The Third Weaver 


Then with a suddenness that was frightening, she burst into 
tears. Peter, aghast* sat staring, not knowing the conven¬ 
tional procedure. As the storm continued, he sprang up, 
took her into his arms, returned to the couch and held her, 
sobbing, against his breast. 

In time her tears lessened. Tenderness filled him. * I un¬ 
derstand, sweetheart,’ he whispered. 4 It has all been too 
much for you.’ 

She did not answer. 

‘ A month of getting married, keeping house and making 
clothes — a new life. Thaisa darling, look up at me. After 
all, it’s just our love beginning. But the strain has been 
mostly on you.’ 

‘ It is new,’ she said, having got herself in hand. ‘ But it 
isn’t just the outside things like cooking and sewing and 
dusting, Peter. It’s what goes on inside.’ 

‘ Tell me. . . 

‘If I should fail! And it’s so mixed up. I know you’ll 
hate this — but I do want to be a good wife, I find.’ 

He held her closer. . . . 

‘ A good wife, who is a happy wife and a singing wife, 
and oh, Peter, a picture wife.’ 

‘All that — but also you’re being a very practical little 
wife.’ 

‘ I know. I had to get started that way. Peter, though 
we’re so happy, I’ve wakened shivering in the night, seeing 
dark shadows.’ 

‘ You’re tired out, that’s it.’ 

‘ Is that all ? ’ She settled down again in his arms. He 
held her like a child, and soon he felt her relax. The long 


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i37 


lashes swept her cheek and she slept, tired out, with little 
deep-drawn breaths. 

Yes, she was a child. How thoughtlessly he had accepted 
these last few weeks. First there was the breaking away 
from Richard who had made it so hard for her — the sever¬ 
ing of the home ties. Then the quick marriage, the settling 
into a new life. And she was sensitive and afraid, he remem¬ 
bered. She longed so for the beautiful — the wholly perfect. 

He rose carefully with her still in his arms and put her 
down on the couch. ‘Yes, just a little girl,’ he thought, 
paternally. ‘ She loves chocolate caramels; I’ll just go out 
and get her some. . . .’ 


9 

But even though she had cried so childishly, and with no 
apparent cause, Thaisa felt that she was maturing. Peter 
left her alone in her thoughts, and she was finding her free¬ 
dom a continued joy. She looked forward to the coming 
years with faith in their rich promise. She and Peter — find¬ 
ing a more and more beautiful harmony. 

So in these early days she would dream. And meet Peter 
at night with glowing eyes and upturned face for his raptur¬ 
ous kiss. 

And after their simple dinner they would go for a walk to 
the lake or take a ride on the park bus. Simple pleasures, but 
bringing a sense of closeness that kept Thaisa winging for 
many days afterwards in the mere memory of them. 

Then one lovely summer night, Peter took her to a party 
out on the South Side at Sanford Brighton’s studio. This 


138 


The Third Weaver 

Brighton was interesting, he told her. Didn’t believe in 
marriage and had just taken a third wife. 

As they entered Brighton’s studio, he was standing near 
the door, expounding some theory about woman. He broke 
off to stare across the room and to shout: ‘Behold Peter 
Dagmar and his bride.’ 

This introduction added to Thaisa’s shyness; she pressed 
closer to Peter. In a moment they were surrounded by 
people who seemed to Peter to gabble a lot and lay too ridicu¬ 
lous a stress on how funny it was that Peter Dagmar had at 
last succumbed to a bond. 

Foster, restless and a bit bored, came up to meet Thaisa. 
They talked a moment; then Foster moved away. ‘ I know 
now, Peter,’ Thaisa whispered when they were alone for a 
moment. ‘ I know that you are really the leading spirit of 
the magazine.’ 

‘ Nonsense,’ said Peter, well pleased. 

She flashed him a warm glance, bestowing knighthood. 
Brighton returning, immediately possessed himself of Thaisa 
and, holding tight to her arm, led her across the long, narrow 
room. She observed that it was exotically furnished in apricot 
and black with one flaming wall picture of some cubist study, 
the meaning of which was totally blank to Thaisa. Peter 
saw her go, not entirely happy about it, yet relieved to know 
that she was going to mix with his crowd. 

He went about himself then, mingling, but he kept his 
eye on Thaisa. Brighton, he saw, was filling her up, talking 
and gesticulating with his long slender hands, probably get¬ 
ting her all confused — impressing her, of course. So after a 
time Peter edged in closer. 


The Third Weaver 


i39 


Thaisa, seeing him, turned. Peter could almost hear her 
words: ‘My husband is looking for me. . . .’ and flushed 
faintly. ‘ Come along, Thaisa,’ he managed, ‘ let Brighton 
talk his theories to some one else for a change.’ 

Foster came up. ‘ Oh, Mrs. Dagmar,’ he began, ‘ they’re 
dancing in the next room. Would you care to have a turn ? ’ 

‘ I’d love to,’ said Thaisa and moved away, leaving Peter 
alone again. 

Peter suddenly felt old and savage and brutal. One or two 
others took Thaisa from Foster; Brighton with his third 
little wife, a pretty creature, came bearing coffee and sand¬ 
wiches, and after this some one sang. In a short time Peter 
decided that Thaisa was tired. Obediently she secured her 
wrap and they went out together. 

There were four blocks to walk to the car. * Were you 
interested in that kind of party, Thaisa ? ’ Peter asked. 

‘ Yes, though it was all strange and new to me.’ 

‘ At one of the parties there was quite a scene. Sanford’s 
wife, Gertrude, became intensely jealous because of his at¬ 
tentions to a Joyce Harmon. She did rip it out — in public.’ 

‘ Like my mother,’ said Thaisa. 

Peter saw he had been thoughtless. ‘I’m sorry,’ he 
stammered. 

‘It doesn’t matter; but these people believe in freedom, 
don’t they ? Why should Gertrude have made the row ? ’ 

‘ Brighton, at our next party, with Gertrude beside him — 
quite calm and sane again — gave the real explanation.’ 

‘ I should like to hear it.’ 

‘ Good stuff, I thought. He said a woman with a child is 
apt to revert. In fact, he had been warned of just that possi- 


140 


The Third Weaver 


bility when he married Gertrude, so he sought to make 
his third marriage a success by adding the element lacking 
in the first two. There’d been no children before.’ 

4 Yes, Peter — go on.’ 

4 Well, there’s not much more. I suppose motherhood, as 
Sanford claims, does make a woman reactionary and prim¬ 
itive for a time. She wants her mate, since she’s afraid of 
losing his support and protection when she most needs it. 
And Gertrude fully agrees with that theory. She believes 
the phase of possession will pass with her, and that as the 
child grows older and is less helpless and in need of her care, 
she in turn will require less of the father.’ 

They had reached the corner now and stopped to await 
their car. Thaisa remained silent. Suddenly she looked 
up at Peter. ‘ I think,’ she said very slowly, 4 that all that 
sort of talk is horridly dishonest.’ 

Peter, thrown back, stared at his wife. Was it only a 
week ago he had brought chocolate caramels to a child ? 

10 

She told him, after that, that she didn’t want any more 
parties — not for a time, anyway. So he took her around 
to hear music and to lectures. One night they went to hear 
a Brahmin lecture, given by a dark man, worn down through 
excessive poise to a mere shadow. Thaisa told Peter she 
liked him. 4 1 liked particularly what he said about loving 
one’s self.’ 

Peter stared at her. It had seemed ridiculous to him. 

From this they searched into other cults. Reincarnation, 


The Third Weaver 


141 

spiritualism. But Thaisa confessed she was afraid of peep¬ 
ing into shade realms. She would go silent, apparently 
looking deep into herself. ‘ I think I’d have to live the first¬ 
hand, direct life,’ she finally decided. 

Amazing. But he answered her in kind. ‘ After a while, 
in this belief, I can see that you’d not use your own creative 
faculties — just be carried away by external phenomena.’ 

Thaisa nodded. ‘ But I can see about reincarnation — that 
it would answer a lot where people are thwarted and 
puzzled.’ 

‘ Yes, but no scientific basis. These people advance plenty 
of good-sounding theories, but when anyone gets a fixed 
notion, he can discover all sorts of fantasies to uphold it.’ 

Thaisa could understand that, too. 

And so they wandered all over the city. . . . From re¬ 
spectable Orchestra Hall talks to exhortations by fiery orators 
who spoke on freedom from corner soap boxes. 

And Peter got to believe that he was educating his wife in 
his own way. 

In time, a letter came from Richard. Peter’s generous ex¬ 
pressions and his gratitude for the gift of Richard’s daughter 
had touched him. He hoped, he said, some day to come to 
Chicago to see them both. 

Thaisa, when Peter showed her Richard’s letter, flung her 
arms about him. ‘ It was nice of you to open the way,’ she 
cried. ‘ I haven’t told you how I felt about Father — how 
I’ve longed to be friends again. And to think that perhaps 
he will come here! Peter, you are wonderful! ’ 

Peter threw out his chest. He was getting along, he saw, 
in the fine art of relationship. 


142 


The Third Weaver 


But lie dreamed that night that he was walking a tight 
rope. He nearly lost his balance and was just able to clutch at 
something long and silky, yet strong as steel. At first, he 
was not conscious of what this was until suddenly Thaisa 
looked up, and he saw it was her hair to which he clung. 
He must have hurt her frightfully, but she was smiling, and 
she said, ‘ Never mind, Peter; just so you don’t fall.’ 

n 

One day, toward fall, Foster told Peter that things weren’t 
going just right with the magazine. 

Peter knew this for Foster’s restlessness; he had tired of 
his toy. But Peter was worried. Out of a job! And now 
there was Thaisa. He was a married man. 

Thaisa saw that something had gone wrong. 4 What is 
it, Peter ? ’ 

4 Going to lose my job.’ 

4 Is that all ? What does that matter ? ’ 

4 What does it matter ? Why, I’m married now.’ 

Married! Was he resenting this truth? A cold hand 
touched her. She stood waiting for him to speak again — 
the color gone from her face. When he remained silent, she 
turned and went into the little kitchen. 

Peter sorry he was married — when marriage meant fac¬ 
ing responsibility. Sorry he had sent for her! 

After supper, Peter, with a short word, went to a shelf 
and took down a chessboard and a small box. He drew 
forth a table and arranged the board and the men. 

Thaisa, remembering the same scene in the shack at 


The Third Weaver 


M3 


Ranger, when Peter and Richard had shut themselves away 
from reality, felt the coldness within her deepen. 

And this night she had news to give him. 

She waited. An hour passed, and Peter was still moving 
his pawns — silly, brainless pawns. Silly Peter engaged in 
such pastime! And suddenly Thaisa laughed. 

At something in his wife’s voice, Peter looked up, drawn 
irresistibly out of that vacuum in which, when life 
irked him, he could by dint of pawns and checkers, isolate 
himself. 

Some expression too in Thaisa’s face made him turn 
quickly. ‘ What is it ? ’ he asked, rising. 

‘ I had news for you — you had news for me,’ she 
responded. 

‘What —tell me.’ 

She spoke quietly: ‘ A child. ... I went to the doctor, 
because I didn’t know. . . . Every symptom points that 
way. . . She tried to smile. 

Peter felt a strange, rather awful thrill. He stood without 
moving for a second; then he rushed to her, crashing the 
kings and pawns to the floor. He was beside her — on his 
knees — his head on her folded hands. 

‘Thaisa. . . . Thaisa!’ 

‘ Are you glad ? ’ 

‘ Glad ? A child of one’s own has always seemed a miracle 
to me. I’m glad and frightened.’ 

Later, they sat very close, without words. Then after a 
time they began to talk. Thaisa, stirred by an emotion she 
had never before known, felt deeply Peter’s solemnity, his 
solicitude for her. 


144 


The Third Weaver 


‘ I am strong with you beside me, Peter,’ she said. Then, 
closing her eyes: * At first, when the doctor told me, I was 
horribly frightened.’ 

‘ I will be with you every moment,’ he told her. 

‘ I couldn’t endure it otherwise,’ she said. 

But Peter’s arms were about her — strong and protecting. 
‘ And it’s all made easier,’ he told her, ‘ by modern science. 
And you shall have everything. . . .’ 

Just now he felt courageous enough, powerful enough, to 
go out and obtain any job in the world — self-sacrificing 
enough to earn and to save money until there should be suf¬ 
ficient for every need, and then to write the book or the play 
of the age. 

Night after night they talked. ‘ We must teach him to be 
honest in every way,’ said Thaisa. Her eyes were very large 
and dark. 

‘ Honest with life and with himself,’ Peter went on in 
his new, deep voice. ‘ We must help him with the difficult 
struggle of meeting reality, if need be, unprotected and 
alone.’ 

She smiled whimsically at him. ‘ You couldn’t just go to 
playing checkers and shut a child out, Peter. That wouldn’t 
be fair.’ 

‘ I shouldn’t want to, Thaisa. I shouldn’t want to shut 
out life ever again. A child’s a serious proposition.’ 

‘ Peter, how strange that you feel that way. I think only 
of beauty.* 

* I can see how he’d do something for both of us where we 
both need help. ... Of course, Thaisa, you’ll spoil him.’ 

‘ I hope so.’ 


The Third Weaver 


i45 


‘ In any event, I think we should try to get to Europe to 
live. There are schools there far in advance of anything we 
have here.’ 

‘ But by the time he’s ready there may be such schools here, 
Peter.’ 

‘ It takes a great many years to change certain ideas. . . . 
We must be very careful. . . . Some schools, with their 
system of espionage, train children into expert liars. . . . 
Others train not only in deceit but in snobbery.’ 

‘Yes, Peter.’ 

She saw with some amazement what a marvelous interest 
and awakening this new element would bring into Peter’s 
life. 

And then their hopes were dashed. All signs had failed. 

12 

Thaisa grew depressed after this hard disappointment. 
Peter, hiding his own feelings, strove to divert her. He in¬ 
vited people to the studio. There were parties lasting into 
early morning, at one of which complacent Myra Kenyon 
tried to commit suicide by swallowing poison. 

Thaisa heard a little cry in the kitchen, and saying nothing 
to the others, she went to the smaller room and found Myra 
leaning against the table, her face deadly white. . . . 

‘ What is it, Myra? ’ Thaisa cried in alarm. 

‘ I want Peter,’ the girl whispered. 

Thaisa summoned Peter. ‘Peter,’ Myra began through 
twisted lips, ‘ I’ve taken poison.’ 

‘ My God! ’ cried Peter. 


146 


The Third Weaver 


Sanford Brighton came to the door. ‘Find a doctor,’ 
Thaisa said to him quietly, ‘ and get rid of the crowd in 
some way.’ 

Thaisa secured an emetic and brought the glass to Myra, 
who pushed it away. Writhing in pain, she stood with 
Peter’s arms about her. 

‘ Peter,’ she cried, ‘ Peter, why did you marry this life¬ 
less doll! ’ 

‘ Hush! ’ said Peter sternly, ‘ Hush! ’ 

He piloted her into the front room. Brighton had done 
a quick job; the place was clear. Insisting against her re¬ 
monstrances, Peter laid Myra on the couch. 

‘Peter . . . Peter. . . .’ she moaned. 

Thaisa put the glass down and stood very quiet, the color 
gone from her face. 

‘I’m sorry to say this, now when you’re suffering,’ said 
Peter, ‘ but you’re a fool, Myra.’ 

‘ I’ve always cared for you, and if that’s what makes me a 
fool ... It didn’t matter so much when you were free — 
as you said you always would be. . . .’ 

‘ That’s enough,’ said Peter savagely, catching a glimpse 
of Thaisa’s eyes. ‘ Try to rest till the doctor comes.’ 

But Myra implored him: ‘Peter, you did care when we 
went about together before she came. . . .’ and as she saw 
the revulsion in his face. ‘ . . . your little country girl — 
the kind your type always takes up with.’ Her malice was 
lost in another sharp agony of pain. 

The doctor came, made his examinations, ordered the hos¬ 
pital. ‘ I’ll send an ambulance.’ 

‘ No. ... No! ’ Myra cried. 


The Third Weaver 


i47 


‘ Couldn’t she go in a taxi? ’ Thaisa asked the physician. 
‘ She can sit up, can’t she? ’ 

He smiled. ‘ She’s taken just enough of the stuff to give 
her bad cramps.’ And from Myra’s conscious eyes Thaisa 
turned away. 

The doctor was a kindly man who attended to all the de¬ 
tails. Myra was better in a few days and able to leave the 
hospital. Still the thing got out, and Thaisa went about with 
head held high, but with lips in which there was no color. 

‘ You know Myra’s story is a fantasy,’ Peter said. ‘ You 
know that, Thaisa.’ 

She did realize that, but she felt a sudden sickness of this 
life that Peter had always known. ‘ It all is so wretchedly 
dishonest,’ she said, ‘ — even Myra’s attempt. She wasn’t 
courageous enough to go the whole way.’ 

* It would take some courage to do that.’ 

* Of course; but the pretense — to bring about . . .’ 

What ? She paused to look at him. Did Myra think that 

Peter would break his marriage to the little country girl who 
was so passionless ? 

Myra, nor any of her kind, could know the swift, deep 
passion that Thaisa was capable of feeling. And Myra’s 
futile gesture had stirred these passions into a swift stream. 
A stream of longing for fresh winds and the woods, and 
sound, sweet talk with a winging companion. 

Peter, helpless, looked on. That Myra should select him 
for the play of her dramatics was beyond all measure cynical. 

He had enough to think about. In June, Foster’s maga¬ 
zine quietly died, but Foster somewhat in expiation offered 
Peter his cottage at Crystal Lake for the summer. 


148 


The Third Weaver 


Peter seized on this offer. The change would do Thaisa 
good — help her forget the wretched episode of Myra. 

13 

Crystal Lake was lovely and the cottage convenient — a 
three-room affair with long casement windows which com¬ 
manded an entrancing view of water and irregular distant 
hills. 

Thaisa, having gone through some deep mental processes, 
had come to the decision to let bygones be bygones and start 
afresh. She had entered Peter’s world, a world of which she 
knew little, and she must adapt herself. 

Having come to this conclusion, Thaisa did not turn back. 
She had no undercurrents; so she was not only pleasant and 
happy on the surface, but was free from dark thoughts 
beneath. 

But Peter was not so resilient. Myra had disturbed some 
lovely element dwelling in the life he and Thaisa lived to¬ 
gether. And he had lost his job. 

He was greatly in debt, and the day when he could 
send Thaisa to dramatic school was put off again — far 
away. 

So when the rain began and poured down in dismal tor¬ 
rents, he began to wander about disconsolately. Suddenly 
he cried out: ‘Let’s go back to Chicago. I can’t stand this 
greyness any longer.’ 

‘ It is wretched, but couldn’t you get down to some writing 
and shut it out ? ’ 

‘ Heavens no, I haven’t a thought in my head. I’d like to 


The Third Weaver 


149 


run a thousand miles away where it’s bright and where there 
are crowds and lots of noise.’ 

‘All right, let’s pretend we’re running away. I’ll race 
you to the end of the pier.* 

She stood there before him, so young, so desirous of being 
happy, and something within him mocked — for what really 
could he give her out of this mood of black ugliness ? He 
turned away, went to the window and shivered at the sound 
of wind and water. Thaisa said, ‘ I know what it is to hate 
ugliness, but the rain isn’t ugly. And besides, we’re here 
together.’ 

His heart ached over her, but he understood her way. She 
must have been frightfully disillusioned after Myra’s action, 
even though he felt she believed that Myra had no case; but 
as always, she was shutting down on her deeper feelings so 
there might be harmony. . . . 

And since he did not answer, but stood there gazing at her 
with some expression in his eyes she could not read, she 
turned, found her raincoat and went out. 

Left alone, he wandered aimlessly about; then on a top 
shelf, over a cupboard, he found a set of building blocks. 
He thought of old-world cathedrals and began to build. 
Fascinating work — shutting out reality. He was barely 
aware of Thaisa’s return. Her voice came to him out of 
some other region. 

Two steeples reared themselves. Suddenly he felt a soft 
arm about his neck. ‘ I am lonely, Peter,’ Thaisa whispered. 
Her arm shifting, toppled over one of his steeples. 

‘ For Heaven’s sake, Thaisa! ’ he cried irritably. 

‘ I’m sorry.’ 


150 


The Third Weaver 


‘ Well, never mind. Run along and play.’ 

‘ I’m not a child, Peter.’ 

‘ Is this withdrawn manner a threat? ’ He tried now to 
speak lightly as a fear grew within him, a fear that he had 
definitely hurt some fragile beauty. But he was helpless 
with himself. He was more than a cruel brute. But there 
he sat, eyes on his blocks, unable to meet her pleas and her 
needs. 

It was long after midnight when he left the blocks and 
went to lie in one of the bunks which was built into the wall. 
Thaisa slept in a cot drawn near an open door; the rain must 
have splashed her face. He looked down into her lovely 
face and wondered sadly if ever really he had touched her 
soul awake. 

The next day the rain stopped, but of this Peter was 
scarcely conscious. Vaguely he heard Thaisa pulling the 
flat-bottomed boat out of the basement to run it into the side 
canal that led to the lake. He had a third steeple erected 
before she returned. 

He placed four triangles along a wall and felt joy at a 
completed design. Carefully he built; a long, oval clear 
space ensued. A sculptor could fill in here with a life-sized 
figure of an angel flaming at the gate. 

14 

Life went on, monotonously, even though war across the 
water had lifted its ugly head. Then Thaisa began again to 
talk of a job. ‘ I’m twenty-two, a grown woman, with really 
nothing to do,’ she told Peter. ‘ It’s absurd.’ 


The Third Weaver 


151 

He did not answer. He was free-lancing now and not 
making very much headway. 

* I can get home in time to cook dinner.’ She gazed about 
the studio. 4 And the work is really nothing.’ 

‘ What do you think of doing ? ’ 

I’ve been studying shorthand at home here, and I can learn 
typing.’ 

4 What for?’ 

4 To get a job, as I’ve said, Peter — save some money and 
go into old John Lewis’ Dramatic School.’ 

Exactly what he had intended to do for her. Failure here 
as everywhere. Always she must do for herself, it seemed. 

She bought an old typewriter — so as not to hurt Peter’s 

machine-studied shorthand, and amazingly found herself 

a position. 

That day she came home with her news, and Peter told 
her he had made plans to be psycho-analyzed. 

Thaisa looked a little bewildered. Peter went on, 4 The 
man I’m going to is a wonder. He’ll get at my trouble, the 
cause of my dissatisfactions.’ 

4 Oh! ’ still amazed. 4 What does he think ? ’ 

4 Some stoppage, something deep rooted. At any rate, I’m 
not to write till everything is cleared up.’ 

4 But it seems silly to stop your work. After all, Peter, 
isn’t it better just to go on living and experiencing — and 
after a while getting straight with yourself ? ’ 

4 No, it’s deeper than that.’ 

4 Couldn’t you do it for yourself? ’ 

4 No; it takes more courage than I’ve got.’ 

So Peter spent most of his time being analyzed, and Thaisa 


152 


The Third Weaver 


went on with her work, typing in a South Water Street 
house. 

‘Of course you’ve lost all faith in me, Thaisa,’ he said 
one day. 

‘ No. . . . But I must hold on to my job, because right 
now we have to eat and to pay the rent. And sometimes I 
think I’d like to live differently.’ She looked around the 
small studio. 

‘ You’d like to fly away. I know that, Thaisa.’ 

‘ It would be nice to have wings.’ 

‘ And so you take a job as typist in a South Water Street 
house — moving among decaying vegetables.’ 

She laughed: ‘Perhaps that’s my way of being psycho¬ 
analyzed.’ 

‘ What do you mean ? ’ 

‘ Oh, Peter, I don’t know. Don’t men and women always 
do the same thing differently? ’ 

15 

Later, Peter dropped his study of psycho-analysis; even the 
psychic interpretation of dreams ceased to enthrall him. 
Then he turned to behaviorism, but found its method of in¬ 
quiry too cold and drab. In despair of finding ultimate 
truth anywhere in modern psychology, he threw the whole 
thing up. 

Then Foster sent for him again. Peter found the new 
venture being issued from important looking quarters in a 
Jackson Boulevard building. Foster — who seemed to have 
deepened into a new sincerity since by some investment he 


The Third Weaver 


i53 


had lost a great deal of money — suggested that Peter do an 
editorial a week for him and some editing of other men’s 
stuff. 

Peter accepted. 

When he reached home, he found that Richard had ar¬ 
rived for the long-promised visit before going on to New 
York. He had been at the studio a few hours and had already 
persuaded Thaisa to give up her job in the belief that he could 
while in Chicago, get her into some experimental theatre, 
either on Michigan Avenue or out south near Stony Island. 

So Peter, who had rushed home to tell her that she could 
go in at once to study with old John Lewis, felt his plans 
again gone awry. . . . 

But he greeted Richard cordially. * He has escaped,’ said 
Thaisa to Peter, after they had seen Richard to his hotel. 
‘ Did you notice how vague he was about this business in 
New York? ’ 

‘ He was vague,’ Peter agreed. 

The next day, Richard took them to the Loop for lunch¬ 
eon. They went down the street together, Thaisa appear¬ 
ing small between the two men, each of whom held an 
elbow, thus piloting her, they thought. 

Richard now was in the gayest of spirits. At the table, 
in a little Wabash Avenue restaurant, he and Peter talked — 
perfectly in tune it seemed. Thaisa leaning back watched 
them, a smile at her lips. 

When a lull came, she said, ‘ You haven’t told me yet how 
things are at home, Father.’ 

As though brought down from some height, he gazed at 
her a second. ‘ Oh, very good indeed,’ he returned at last. 


154 


The Third Weaver 


4 Fin still with the theatre. We live in Portland. The old 
farm is quite done for — really a tumble-down shack now.’ 

4 Abandoned, you mean ? ’ 

4 Exactly. A deserted place. ... So many have moved 
away from that locality.’ 

4 And Mother and the boys ? ’ 

‘Well, quite well. Doesn’t Jenny write? I don’t find 
time.’ 

4 She writes occasionally.’ Thaisa was sure now that all 
his ingenuity had been called upon to persuade Jenny to 
allow him to travel afar, leaving her at home. 

He turned definitely to Peter, and Peter received him 
gladly. They went on for an hour of contention, conjec¬ 
tures, surmises, formulas to settle the world, automatically 
partaking of food that meant nothing to them. At last: 
4 Peter, you should get to New York. Can’t you make it ? ’ 

A flush of intense desire rose to Peter’s face. 4 I’ve wanted 
to,’ he confessed. 4 It hasn’t seemed possible.’ 

4 It would probably prove to be well worth your while.’ 

4 No doubt; and some day Thaisa and I will pull up stakes 
and go.’ 

4 Some day! I wish you could go on with me when I leave 
here.’ 

4 Why don’t you do that, Peter ? ’ Thaisa spoke in a voice 
that was quite steady. 4 1 could stay here for a while and 
join you later.’ 

She saw that he was aglow with the thought of change, 
of moving on. 4 We’ll talk about it later,’ he answered. 

Richard said, 4 Have you heard that Ian Trevor is on the 
road to making himself famous ? ’ 


The Third Weaver 


i55 


‘ What is he doing? ’ Thaisa inquired. 

‘ Building bridges, as he set out to do; but he has carried 
through some remarkable pieces of work — so I hear from 
his aunt.’ Richard turned to Peter. ‘ Is it any news to 
you, Peter, that Ian was desperately in love with Thaisa? 
He turned up after she left Portland, looking utterly woe¬ 
begone.’ 

‘ No news at all,’ Peter said. 

‘ But Thaisa wasn’t in love with him, or else she did not 
know her own heart,’ Richard commented mischievously. 
‘ Well, I liked Ian,’ he finished. 

‘ You might have been married to a successful man who 
could have helped you to a large career, Thaisa,’ Peter put 
in. ‘ Aren’t you sorry now ? ’ 

‘ You know I’m not.’ 

But he gazed at her in the searching way he had acquired, 
and as his eyes met hers, she saw the questioning in them. 

‘ Let’s go this afternoon,’ said Richard, 4 to the Lewis Shop 
on Stony Island. They’re doing good work, these players, 
and it’s there I thought Thaisa might get in.’ 

So they went to the South Side and came to a large shop 
just off Stony Island Avenue where a Little Theatre experi¬ 
ment was being carried on. 

They stopped to gaze in the window. A purple rep cur¬ 
tain was hung against the glass, and leaning against it a card 
announced that the Lewis Players were giving a matinee 
that afternoon. 

Richard grandly paid the way, and they went inside. The 
space within was long and narrow and had been converted 
into an auditorium with small folding chairs in half circles. 


The Third Weaver 


ij6 

At one end of the stage, a step higher than the auditorium, 
a faded velvet curtain hung in folds. 

The first little play was well done; the second one not so 
good; and the third — with a young American taking the 
part of a loyal Chinaman — Thaisa thought superb. After 
the final curtain had been lowered and the three dozen per¬ 
sons who had occupied the folding chairs were circulating 
about talking and laughing, Thaisa sat quite still, excitement 
still painting crimson spots in her cheek. She was feeling 
deeply, burningly, the hideous exposure of third degree 
methods, the poor Chinaman knowing seemingly only one 
emotion, love for his master. 

She awoke to find that Peter and Richard were standing 
near, talking to the young man who had taken the part of 
the Chinaman, and Peter was saying: ‘ You’ll be interested 
in meeting Bertram Lewis, Thaisa.’ 

Bertram Lewis was tall, dark and somber. His lips were 
finely cut and sensitive, his hands long and slender. He said 
at once to Thaisa, ‘ You want to be on the stage. Why aren’t 
you there? ’ 

Thaisa flushed. ‘ It’s true I’ve always wanted to play.’ 

He still continued to gaze at her in reflective manner. 
‘ You are talented, that’s easily to be seen,’ he said at last. 
He turned to look at Peter. Peter said sharply: ‘ My wife 
is perfectly free to do as she pleases.’ 

‘ Is she ? ’ the young man asked. ‘ Is any woman, once 
she’s taken on marriage ? ’ 

They all laughed in varying degree of response. 
Outside, Thaisa said, ‘ Father, I’d love to get in with that 
group.’ 


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157 


‘ I thought you might,’ Richard returned. 

Peter said, ‘ If you want to try, go ahead, Thaisa.’ 

‘Thank you, Peter,’ she answered demurely. 

16 

She went again with Richard to the Little Shop. Bertram 
Lewis was there, alone. He greeted the visitors very 
cordially. 

‘ You’ve a clever organization,’ Richard began, when they 
were seated together on the empty stage. 

Lewis liked to talk, and he found responsive listeners. 
Here in this small theatre he had been experimenting, and 
he had about concluded that there was as much insincerity 
in the Little Theatre business as in any of the purely com¬ 
mercial groups. More posing too. If he wanted to present 
a melodrama reeking with all the condemned virtues, he did 
not hesitate. And he found he held his audiences, a mixed 
company nearly always, when he presented either the blood 
and thunder stuff, put on by his players, he conceded, with 
their tongues in their cheek, or the little modern one-act 
plays made by young radicals. 

Thaisa, listening to him, thought Lewis was really in¬ 
spired by some newer spiritual consciousness. ‘All art,’ he 
went on, ‘ should get at the root necessities of people, and 
some of those necessities aren’t nearly so aesthetic as the poet 
makes out — much more brutal, much nearer the elemental. 
Use melodrama, I say then, in the theatre, but with a depth 
of meaning not at all obscured and overpowered by the blood 
and thunder story. And have an ending of the spirit. Now it 


i 5 8 


The Third Weaver 


takes genius to weld all these apparently fundamentally 
warring elements together.’ 

‘ Peter will do that some day,’ said Thaisa suddenly. 

‘ And you will take a part in his plays,’ said Lewis. ‘ Very 
good.’ 

‘My daughter . . .’ Richard began. But Lewis inter¬ 
rupted, ‘ She is meant for greatness. But there’ll be a lot for 
her to live first. I was sorry to hear that she is married. She 
should be alone, never tied.’ 

‘Ah, but love . . .! ’ Richard was beginning grandly. 

‘ Yes, but who knows love ? ’ Lewis sat staring at some 
distance. \ . . Thaisa — your entire name I’ve forgotten ? ’ 

‘ Thaisa Dagmar — Worthington first, you know.’ 

‘Thaisa Worthington. Well, come in with us. Twenty- 
five dollars a week to begin with.’ 

Richard looked his astonishment at the young Jew, but 
Lewis went on imperturbably. ‘ It’s just this. She will be 
great in some distant day — make no mistake about that. 
Then Lewis will be remembered.’ 

When they were leaving Thaisa asked: ‘ Are you any re¬ 
lation to John Lewis, the Shakespearean actor? ’ 

‘ He is my uncle, and I studied with him for some time.’ 

Strange how sometimes the pattern came clear. She had 
wanted to study with old John Lewis. . . . Going in with 
his nephew was about the same. 

17 

So Thaisa went in with the Lewis Players. Lewis, she 
found, dominated all the others who worked with him. He 


The Third Weaver 


i59 


was versatile. He had written several of the plays that were 
produced, and he designed the slight scenery sets used. 
Thaisa did not know until long afterwards that her salary 
came out of his pocket. Indeed, most of the expenses of the 
small place were borne by him. Evidently his father — she 
had heard this person was very rich — indulged his only son. 

She was given a part in one of Bertram’s plays. It was a 
small part, but she was greatly excited. Peter and Richard 
sat in front, and when she came on she saw only their faces. 
She felt that she was awkward and self-conscious and that 
she fumbled her lines. She left the stage in a fever of em¬ 
barrassment. 

But Lewis was kind and encouraging. He believed wholly 
in her. And Richard and Peter, coming behind later, con¬ 
gratulated her. 

Bertram went away. 4 You’ve got the necessary something, 
Thaisa,’ said Peter. 4 You’ll go on from here.’ 

‘You’ll have good grounding,’ said Richard, who — 
liking Chicago — had settled down to stay longer than he 
had at first intended. 

4 And I’ll work terribly hard.’ 

4 You’re happy,’ said Peter in a low voice, 4 . . . happier 
than you’ve been for a long time.’ 

4 A different sort of happiness,’ she said. And, trying to re¬ 
move the dark look from his eyes: 4 Some day you will write 
a play and I will have a part.’ 

4 Some day I may be able to do something for you,’ he said 
and turned abruptly away. 

Lewis was returning, accompanied by a man and a 
woman. Even before he came close, Thaisa saw that he was 


i6o 


The Third Weaver 


in love with the woman and that she seemed wholly indif¬ 
ferent. Then when they were near, Thaisa heard a mur¬ 
mured name, ‘. . . Reba Van Valkenberg!’ The words 
‘drenched in scent* returned to her, though they had not 
been applied to this girl but to her mother. Reba — the 
girl of the sparkling necklace! She was beautiful, with ex¬ 
quisite coloring, violet eyes and ash-colored hair. She looked 
fragile, yet there was something hardy in her personality. 
And while Thaisa stood, still lost in amazement, it was Reba 
who spoke: 

‘ Thaisa Worthington! I saw your name in the program, 
and Bertram also told me of you. I came to see for myself 
if you were the girl I once knew.’ 

Introductions followed. The man with Reba was Ordway 
Strangeley, dramatic critic for the Sun. After a few words, 
Reba and Thaisa were left alone. 

‘ Strange you should have known me at once,’ returned 
Thaisa. 

‘ Of course. You’ve scarcely changed. And you would 
have known me ? ’ 

‘ I think so. Though you’d grown really to be a figure in 
an incident to me.* 

‘ Interesting. Do tell me! ’ 

‘ Well, the thing touched little Ellen Garret, a child in 
your mother’s Sunday School class who wanted a string of 
amber beads, and your mother . . .’ 

‘ Oh, I understand what Mother would say.’ 

‘Well, she said it — a flannel petticoat, the alternative. 
And all the time you were standing close by, with a lovely 
string of pearls about your small neck.’ 


The Third Weaver 


161 

‘Rotten, wasn’t it? I don’t doubt that Ellen Garret 
needed a flannel petticoat very badly, but Mother’s point of 
view . . 

‘ It was all confusing to me. . . .’ 

‘ You got Ellen’s angle ? ’ 

‘ I thought I did. Because I’d rather have beauty in those 
days than to be warm.’ 

Reba stood contemplating Thaisa. ‘ But candidly, you’re 
just the same. You were a small girl with large, changing 
eyes that seemed always seeking, and your face was thin 
and pale. You were really very distinctive.’ 

She paused reflectively. ‘ And you’ve still the searching 
look; it’s covered in part, but still there. . . . You’re very 
lovely,’ she finished abruptly. 

Thaisa was quiet. She was thinking of Reba’s dresses 
that she had once worn; of Jenny going to the back door of 
the large house. This memory returning caused her anguish 
even now. It was one of the experiences she had crushed 
down — one of which she would never speak, so poignant 
its continued hurt. 

Now recalling herself, she said, ‘ Your mother is well ? ’ 

‘ Oh, enormously so. Busy, too. She’s interested just now 
in a working girl’s charity, and she has a young secretary 
coming to her nights to keep accounts of the money begged.’ 
Reba paused. ‘ Mother and her working girls! She never 
inquires how this pretty young secretary gets home nights, 
nor even where she lives. Nor whether she earns enough 
money to feed herself properly. My mother is very immoral,’ 
she finished coolly. 

Thaisa laughed. 


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162 

‘ Come and see me, won’t you ? ’ Reba asked. ‘ I’m 
interested in a lot of things, but we could have some 
fun together.’ And then: ‘If you must, bring your 
husband.’ 

‘ Don’t you like husbands ? ’ 

A strange look, not then to be interpreted by Thaisa, 
crossed Reba’s face. 

‘ Not as husbands,’ she returned lightly. ‘ But you will 
come to see me won’t you, Thaisa ? ’ 

Thaisa promised. Strangeley, leaving a group, came to 
them. He was debonair, handsome and totally indifferent. 
But Thaisa saw a look on Reba’s face that disclosed her 
secret. And pity filled her heart. 

18 

Peter didn’t like Reba, and therefore he refused to attend 
any of her parties. Thaisa went because she enjoyed Reba 
and because she met many people of interest who came to 
the great old house on Michigan Avenue. 

Reba had a long studio-room on the top floor. Large 
spaces and long windows draped in gold-colored silks, 
cretonne-covered chairs and couches, plain rugs on the floor, 
all made for atmosphere. Here she gathered her friends 
and quite shut away her mother’s kind. Her father, who, 
according to Reba’s frank opinion, was fortunate to have 
inherited wealth, rather admired his daughter’s independ¬ 
ence. Most of his time he spent studying his butterfly lore. 
There lay his heart, his real love. 

One Sunday evening, Reba, who had been away, rejoined 


The Third Weaver 


16} 


her guests. She drew Thaisa to one side. ‘I’ve been to 
Father’s menagerie,’ she said. ‘ His man Alexander, has 
sent him three caterpillars from the farm in Wisconsin. 
Beauties, really — brilliant blue with black bands and two 
rows of golden knobs down their backs, and feet that make 
little vacuums. Actually, Father quite carried me away with 
his enthusiasm.’ 

‘ I’d love them.’ 

‘ And he’d adore you if you said that to him. He stayed up 
all night feeding the little things sips of sweetened water.’ 

‘ Why don’t you go in for something, Reba ? You have 
ideas’ 

‘ Ideas ? No, I’m just going to prove the right of the purely 
commonplace person to vegetate.’ 

‘ You vegetate! ’ 

‘ What else ? . . . There’s Ordway, impressing that 
Whitty girl. Ah, now he’s coming over here. Prepare your¬ 
self, Thaisa. I believe he has a criticism for you.’ 

Strangeley did begin at once. ‘ Well, Thaisa, you’re put¬ 
ting a bit too much sentimentality into your work. I believe 
it’s because you’re living the conventional life, and it 
won’t do.’ 

‘ What would you suggest then ? ’ she asked, demurely. 

* Are you advising Thaisa to divorce her husband ? ’ Reba 
asked. 

‘ Quite. The artist should be free.’ 

‘ Write a play for her,’ said Reba. ‘ Make her the woman 
of the future, being ruthless.’ 

‘ I may, at that,’ replied Strangeley. 4 I’ve been thinking of 
dramatizing a woman — a sex experimentalist of a danger- 


164 


The Third Weaver 


ous sort. She is trying to find herself, and she doesn’t care 
what others have to suffer to help her get there.’ 

* You’d do it brilliantly since you’re something of an ex¬ 
perimentalist yourself — though you’d never get scorched,’ 
Reba returned. 

‘ I’m not an experimentalist. Simply, I don’t think love 
is everything. You Reba, want love, as all women do.’ 

‘Nonsense!’ Reba was stirred to indignation. ‘Woman 
should want love, you believe, and so, despite all she says or 
does to show differently, you keep on pretending to believe 
that love is her life.’ 

Brave Reba, Thaisa thought. 

‘ Nonsense if you like,’ answered Strangeley, undaunted. 

‘ And men don’t need love ? ’ Thaisa asked. 

‘ It’s only half life for man.’ 

‘ You weary me,’ said Reba. 

‘ Well then, were all the great priests plain psychopaths, or 
what? And what about all the artists and scientists who 
make women secondary in their lives ? ’ 

‘ You’re just a selfish brute of a man! ’ Reba cried. ‘ You 
want everything without paying for it — that’s the story.’ 

‘No. I’m like Thaisa here. She’s an artist — I’m not; 
but we have the same difficulty in life; half in the picture 
and half out.’ 

‘ Thaisa’s all right; she’ll find the way. And it will be her 
own way.’ 

Thaisa felt a bit battered between her two friends. She 
rose now. ‘ Peter and my father are at the studio,’ she said. 
‘ I promised I’d be home early.’ 

‘And leave my party flat? Peter and your father are 


The Third Weaver 


165 


probably having a fine time discussing some gay and wing¬ 
ing future,’ Reba responded. 4 Already I know Peter, and 
while I think he’s charming, even if he doesn’t like me, I 
think I have him catalogued.’ 

Thaisa didn’t answer; she couldn’t deny Peter’s antag¬ 
onistic feeling toward Reba. He didn’t like her; she 
annoyed him as would any idle, rich girl who felt herself 
empowered to dominate, so he thought. Unfair, this ap¬ 
praisal, Thaisa told him, but she was not able to change 
his attitude. 

Strangeley walked down the stairs with her, out into the 
street, and stood with her while she waited for a car. 4 Now 
think a bit of what I’ve said,’ he told her. 4 You’re too much 
divided in your life. You should cut away and run to your 
own mountain top.’ 


19 

Reba did like to bait Peter. One day he returned home to 
find her drinking tea in the studio with Thaisa. She began 
at once, as she was wont to with him: 4 You’ve a lovely wife, 
Peter. I knew her as a little girl.’ 

4 So did I.’ 

4 But you did not know my little girl here in Chicago.’ 

4 No, before that, in New York.’ 

4 Oh, well, let’s not quarrel over who knows Thaisa best,’ 
suddenly from Reba. 

4 No, don’t,’ Thaisa put in. 4 1 can’t see where you’d get a 
quarrel out of me. ... I wish Father would happen in.’ 

4 Richard’s making hay while the sun shines,’ Peter said. 


1 66 


The Third Weaver 


4 But I think now that even Chicago is ceasing to interest 
him. He’s ready to move on.’ 

4 He’s a faun,’ said Reba, 4 a perfectly delightful faun. No 
one will ever capture him. No wonder you like him, Peter. 
You must thoroughly understand him.’ Then she rose and 
leisurely departed. 

4 Thaisa, I’ll commit murder some day if you continue to 
ring that girl in on me,’ Peter complained, the moment they 
were alone. 

4 Reba’s beautiful,’ said Thaisa. 

4 Only because you like her.’ 

4 1 love her.’ 

4 1 don’t.’ 

4 1 can see you don’t. But she’s so real, so honest minded.’ 

4 She may be all that, but she’s terribly annoying with her 
high-handed ways.’ 

And to himself he was saying: Adolescent, poor fool, that’s 
the term for you. Don’t you want her to see anyone but you ? 

Thaisa — silent for a moment, gazing at him. Then: 
‘That silver wing is beautiful, Peter. Reba says it spells 
the eternal adventurer.’ 

4 1 think it does.’ 

4 Peter, is it that you want to be off — new places, new 
experiences ? Let’s be plain with one another.’ 

Now they had come to issues. 4 It might help us both 
if I should go away,’ he admitted. 

4 Very well.’ 

4 I’ll make my arrangements.’ 

4 Oh, Peter,’ she cried suddenly, 4 can’t we keep our love, 
remember its marvel ? ’ 


The Third Weaver 


167 

‘ The truth is I’m a failure all along the line,’ he returned 
and collapsed into a mood of pure defeat. 

In a passion of tenderness, she cried out, ‘No, no, Peter! 
Not when you mean so much to me.’ 

‘ Oh, Thaisa. . . . Thaisa! ’ holding her close. 

It seemed again like the beginning. After that, they 
stayed together, scarcely separated. Nights, when Thaisa 
was finished at the Little Shop, Peter was there waiting for 
her. In the studio, they shut themselves away from the 
world, scarcely seeing even Richard. 

Freedom! Thaisa thought of Strangeley’s advice. But 
here was love and freedom both. Not even in the glorious 
days of their honeymoon had they known such rapture. 

And yet, little by little, the world crept into their retreat. 
Little by little. . . . Reba coming — wondering why Thaisa 
had not been to see her. And Richard, eager now to be 
away — New York calling him. 

And Peter — as though coming out of a trance — listening 
to Richard, and Richard’s golden plans. . . . Bentley, dy¬ 
namic head of the Experimental Theatre in New York. . . . 
The chance to meet one of the leading analysts. . . . 

. . No, it’s useless to talk about getting away now,’ 
Peter said at last. But the light of intense desire had risen in 
his eyes. Thaisa, standing near him, stilled the ache that 
came into her heart. She said steadily: ‘ Why don’t you take 
a trip, Peter? You need a change.’ 

‘ Not that so much. . . . Still, there is that new man who 
possibly can help me with his analysis.’ Peter went away 
to find Richard. 

Left alone, Thaisa remained deep in thought. Oh, if only 


168 


The Third Weaver 


he would remember the love that so recently had flamed into 
a new beauty for them — the peak of that hour, years ago, 
when they had been drawn to one another by an irresistible 
spiritual attraction. 

That first meeting. . . . The little park in New York. 
She saw again the stranger, mystically appearing before her. 
How he had soothed her childish griefs — supported her in 
her dark loneliness. Her savior, Peter, a winged idealist, 
yearning toward some ever-beckoning Utopia. The young 
god of the tapestry. 

Sacred and compelling, that coming together. Complete 
and wholly satisfying, what followed: the talks in the print¬ 
ing office; the gay wanderings and Peter’s perfect under¬ 
standing of how the mechanics of living weighted her; the 
solemn joy they had known when they exchanged their 
vows. And all these glories leading to the fulfillment of the 
covenant, their marriage. . . . All ordained. 

To lose this vision would be to forfeit her faith in life. 
She must then hold to it desperately. She closed her eyes in 
hard concentration, but pushing through all her defenses, 
came the intolerable truth. Peter felt caught. Peter, when 
this knowledge pressed too sharply, turned to painted cards 
or ivory discs pushed over smooth boards. He took stones 
and built castles that afterwards, in bitter discontent, he 
destroyed. She saw it all — Peter irking at his chains. Why, 
he must hate her! 

Then suddenly came the saving memory. Peter, leaving 
her in Ranger, returning to his place free, no tie to bind 
him; yet, when the strong hand of Destiny pressed upon 
him, he had not turned away. Instead, gladly and wholly 


The Third Weaver 


169 

believing, he had sent for her to be his wife. And she, com¬ 
ing up through the pain of bewildered indecision, had been 
released, made whole by that summons. Destiny! 

The anguished sense of something tangled and blurred — 
a false step taken — vanished. A calm wind blew upon her, 
and she laughed at her own intensities. She had endured 
tortured moments simply because Peter was leaving for a 
needed change, as she had pointed out to him. Soon he 
would return; there would be reunion; and life, with a new 
quality added, would go on richly. 

She saw them both off a few days later. The leave- 
taking had been tender and sad, but Thaisa held her head 
proudly. That reborn faith in a predestined union did not 
fail her. 

But when she opened the studio door, the empty dark¬ 
ness struck her like a blow. Groping to the couch, she sank 
down. She buried her face in her hands, and the slow tears 
crept from between her locked fingers. 

20 

The week after Peter went away, the Little Shop theatre 
closed rather abruptly. The weather was growing warm 
and people did not attend indoor amusements so much. 

On the night of the last performance, Thaisa left the shop, 
tired and depressed. The thought of the lonely studio await¬ 
ing her return made her shiver. She felt lost, abandoned 
in a strange and twisted world. 

She left the street car at Randolph to change, but waiting 
for the bridge vehicle was irksome. She was so weary that 


1 7 o 


The Third Weaver 


she hailed a taxicab and relaxed into its depths as it took her 
over the river to the studio. 

The cab stopped before her home. The street was poorly 
lit, but as she neared the steps, she glimpsed a dark bulk — a 
bulk that at her appearance divided itself into three parts 
and stood swaying toward her. 

‘Mother!’ Thaisa cried. And then: ‘Richard and Paul.’ 

‘And waiting hours! Where have you been?’ Jenny 
inquired, quite as though Thaisa were still a child at her 
knee. ‘ I thought some one might be here. Your husband, 
if you weren’t.’ 

‘ Peter went away last week.’ 

‘I see — I might have known it.’ Thaisa led the way 
through the hall to the studio. The boys, who now reached 
Thaisa’s shoulder, cried out that they were hungry, and 
Thaisa was thankful that she had cookies and milk to offer. 

‘ I came,’ said Jenny, ‘ just to leave the boys with you, while 
I go on to New York.’ 

‘New York?’ 

‘ Yes. You may let your man go galivanting without a 
word, but I’m going after mine. I’ll surprise him.’ 

‘ But, Mother, do you think that’s fair — without giving 
Father warning ? ’ 

‘ Warning, you say! Does he ever give me warning ? No, 
I’m on my way,’ Jenny reiterated. ‘ No telling what he’ll do. 
He may even go back to England and get into the war.’ 

Jenny, it transpired later, had sold all her furniture in 
Portland — cut all associations there. The theatre people 
were angered because Richard had stayed away so long, and 
the end had come — in that town, in any event. 


The Third Weaver 


171 

‘ And Ranger,’ she went on, 4 is an abandoned place. Mrs. 
MacFarland has long since gone — and many others we 
knew. So we’ll probably just stay in New York.’ 

‘ You’ll have to send for the boys.’ 

‘ In time. . . . But I’ll be better able at first to manage 
Richard alone. That’s why I’m leaving the children with 
you for a time.’ 

‘Couldn’t you have taken the children to the farm, 
Mother, and waited there ? ’ 

‘ God forbid. ... You wouldn’t know the spot. Not a 
soul about. . . . And I’d rather follow him than meekly 
wait till he gets ready to come back, down and out. ... I 
kept boarders while he was away and I’ll not do that again.’ 

Thaisa was silent. They were sitting in the larger room 
in Thaisa’s place the morning after Jenny’s arrival, talking. 
The boys were playing in the street just outside. 

‘ But Mother, it doesn’t seem just the thing, to go after 
Father. Didn’t he have business in New York ? ’ 

‘ As much as yours did. What did yours say he was going 
for, anyway ? ’ 

‘ Peter went to be psycho-analyzed.’ 

‘Oh, another way of fooling himself along in laziness.’ 
Jenny would not admit her ignorance here. 

4 But Mother, it’s a new science that men have of finding 
out about themselves.’ 

‘Finding out about themselves! And I suppose paying 
good money for it ? ’ 

‘ Yes, it’s rather a costly procedure.’ 

‘ I thought so. Well, I’d tell them without charge all about 
themselves — yours and mine and any others that try to find 


The Third Weaver 


17 * 

an excuse for not working at what’s set before them and 
evadin’ their responsibilities.’ 

Thaisa smiled. ‘I’ve thought something like that at 
times, Mother. But there are sick people who have been 
helped in this way — sensitive people who were injured by 
wrong handling in childhood.’ 

‘Too bad about them!’ Jenny returned harshly. ‘Let 
them that can’t face the gaff go under — that’s what I say. 
They’ll always be looking for some excuse, anyway.’ 

‘ Mother, perhaps we don’t really understand! ’ 

‘ Understand! Let me tell you this, my girl — them that’s 
always looking for getting away from what they’ve brought 
on themselves would be bad off if there weren’t somebody 
like you and me to stand by.’ 

Thaisa smiled again at the thought of human inconsist¬ 
encies. If Thaisa didn’t stand by now, Jenny would find it a 
little difficult to rush off and reclaim her own. But she re¬ 
mained silent. Jenny would have some picturesque retort 
anyway. 


21 

Thaisa had been obliged completely to make over the small 
studio. A neighbor, a woman artist across the hall, had lent 
her a cot and some bedding, and they had managed to rest. 
Jenny, lying beside Thaisa, slept soundly, but Thaisa stayed 
awake until almost dawn. 

‘ You won’t mind the boys staying with you while I’m 
gone ? ’ Jenny casually inquired one morning. 

Thaisa glanced at the pair, just now subdued and inter¬ 
ested in their new surroundings, and she thought of the rainy 


The Third Weaver 


i73 


days when they must be cooped up in the small studio. She 
had no faith in Jenny’s immediate return. 

‘ There’s a park near here, isn’t there ? ’ Jenny asked. * The 
boys can play there during the day and be put to bed early.’ 

‘ We’ll try to get along,’ said Thaisa. 

That night she went out to the Little Shop to pack some 
of her belongings and there met Strangeley. 4 Reba’s gone 
away for a few days,’ he said. Then regarding her closely: 
‘What’s the trouble? You seem let down. The season 
been too much for you ? ’ 

‘ No — sudden visitors last night.’ 

‘Ah, I see.’ 

Somewhat humorously, she told him of Jenny’s pil¬ 
grimage. 

‘ Go straight home and inform your mother to take her 
offspring with her when she goes husband chasing,’ he ad¬ 
vised. ‘ Present them as prima facie evidence that her man 
has yielded his right to the pursuit of the goddess of liberty.’ 

Thaisa smiled. 

‘ Oh, little child in search of the impossible, forget all that 
you’ve ever yearned for, romance, security, love. . . .’ 

Her eyes suddenly misted. 

. . For nothing lasts, Thaisa, so why care as you care? 
The powerful ones are those who expect nothing from life.’ 

She thought of Reba and her love for this man. If he 
were not so strongly indifferent, he might see and find some¬ 
thing more lovely than he could believe. 

He gazed at her. ‘ But no, you’re hopelessly romantic and 
you’ll tear yourself to pieces because of that.’ Abruptly he 
turned on his heel and was gone. 

But, in a manner, he had strengthened her. She returned 


174 


The Third Weaver 


home, determined to cope with Jenny, and Jenny greeted 
her with the news that Paul was not well and should be 
kept quiet for a few days. ‘ He gets these attacks, but they 
pass all right, if we’re a bit careful.’ 

Thaisa was relieved, and in the morning the boy was bet¬ 
ter. Jenny announced that she was leaving that afternoon. 
A neighbor came to call Thaisa to the telephone which they 
used in common. Thaisa, in five minutes, returned to Jen¬ 
ny’s questioning. ‘ Who was it, Thaisa ? ’ There was no 
reason known to Jenny why Jenny should not ask. 

‘ Reba Van Valkenberg. She’s been out of town and has 
just returned. She asked me to go to a concert with her to¬ 
day, then to her home for dinner.’ 

Jenny stood still, memories awakening. ‘ Reba Van Val¬ 
kenberg ? ’ she asked. 

‘ Yes. The same girl whose mother you knew.’ The color 
flooded Thaisa’s face at thought of the estimable ‘ Mrs. 
O’Hara.’ 

‘ You seem thick with her.’ 

‘ We are very good friends.’ 

‘ My lady daughter! Have you told her how her mother 
was received at her back door ? ’ In Jenny’s voice was some¬ 
thing outraged. 

‘ Please, Mother, don’t,’ Thaisa begged. Something of the 
same emotion that had pierced her when Jenny first told 
this story touched her now. 

4 I’ve a good mind,’ said Jenny, ‘ to seek her out and tell 
her.’ 

Something strong came up then in Thaisa. She turned 
to Jenny as to a stranger. * Mother, from now on you will 


The Third Weaver 


i75 


keep hands off my life. There are some things I want to 
forget,’ she said quietly. 

‘ Hoighty toighty! ’ But Jenny’s eyes held a look of fear. 

Thaisa said no more. She moved about very quietly, far 
removed, it seemed to Jenny, from anything she might say 
or do. 


22 

But Jenny shortly recovered her spirits. She helped pre¬ 
pare lunch; then she washed the dishes in the tiny room 
behind the screen. ‘ Play-house,’ she said, ‘ but I think I’d 
like it for a change.’ 

‘ Peter and I enjoy it.’ 

Jenny looked straight at her daughter. ‘ You seem to me 
to belong to a different world; not tied up in this small place.’ 

‘ Maybe in some future . . .’ 

‘Ah, you’ve learned patience then,’ Jenny interrupted. 
‘ Or what is it ? You’re my own child, and you’re a puzzle 
to me. You seem so simple and so frank, and yet no one 
knows you.’ 

So she complained. Thaisa went to the window to watch 
the boys, who were playing in the street. They were not in 
mischief, though they might easily be. Already Thaisa had 
seen dark looks on the janitor’s face. Few children ever 
wandered into the studio-building halls. And very evi¬ 
dently he did not relish the present invasion. 

‘ Don’t take it so serious,’ said Jenny, coming up softly. 
* They’ve learned pretty well to take care of themselves.’ 

‘ But in the city! ’ 


176 The Third Weaver 



‘ Portland’s a city.’ 

‘ I know I’m foolish to be so nervous.’ 


Jenny said suddenly, 4 Well, you won’t be troubled long. 
I’ll be back here as soon as I can get Richard weaned away 
from whatever’s keeping him.’ 

Thaisa did not answer. She was utterly unable to cope 
with Jenny’s viewpoint. 

‘ And if I were you,’ Jenny continued, ‘ I’d certainly hold 
a tighter rein over your man. He’s not perfect, no more than 
any man is, though you may think so. Take no notice of his 
ridiculous excuses to get away. . . 

‘ But holding on doesn’t make love finer or truer.’ 

‘ Doesn’t it? . . . You get satisfaction, though, that your 
bonds are being lived up to.’ 

‘ Oh, that’s so little.’ 

‘ Is it ? Are you getting beyond common folks ? ’ 

Thaisa did not answer. Jenny waited, then broke out 
with a vigor that showed there still smoldered in her 
the wrath of the morning, ‘You’re growing like your lady 
grandmother.* 

‘ Mother, don’t say that,’ Thaisa cried then. ‘ I want to 
live, to feel, not to evade.’ 

‘ Eh, did your grandmother’s ice make that fear in you ? 
Well, then, take a leaf out of my book! ’ 

Thaisa shrank. ‘ You couldn’t do that either, I see. I’m 
too crude, that’s it — not at all like your fine, rich friends.’ 
All Jenny’s outraged pride came up now. ‘ No thanks — 
after the way I fixed things for you.’ 

A premonitory chill shook Thaisa. ‘ What do you mean ? ’ 
she asked faintly. 


The Third Weaver 


*77 


‘ Back there in Portland when you wandered about not 
knowing what ailed you. So I wrote to Peter! * 

‘ You wrote to Peter! ’ 

‘ Yes. Why not ? I thought he could do for you. . . . 
Anyway, you weren’t easy to live with, and your father for¬ 
ever blaming me.’ 

Thaisa stood stone-still. Jenny looked at the white face 
before her. * What’s there so wrong about that ? You’d said 
that you were going to marry him. So I wrote and told him 
something was wrong with you, and you were probably 
fretting about what had passed between you and him.’ 

As once before in her life, Thaisa put out her hand in an 
imploring gesture. ‘ Don’t, Mother! ’ . . . Some deep pride 
of her womanhood seemed to be probed by a sharp knife. 

‘ Now it came out all right, didn’t it ? ’ Jenny asked, a bit 
frightened. . . You’re married and happy, you say.’ 

But Thaisa did not answer. An element essential to her 
life seemed dying within her. 

‘ Why don’t you speak ? ’ Jenny demanded angrily. 

Thaisa did speak, crying out: ' Oh, Mother, you twisted 
the threads! 9 

But Jenny did not understand. She thought her daughter 
suddenly gone mad. She was aggrieved, and wondered 
whether she’d been a fool to tell the story. She remembered 
that she had warned Peter never to tell, and quite evidently he 
had never done so. But there was Thaisa, looking like death. 

Still — she comforted herself — she had told nothing of 
finding the picture in Peter’s wallet. And she thought her¬ 
self a model of discretion. 


i 7 8 


The Third Weaver 


23 

Thaisa sat down in a little straight chair near the window. 
An intolerable pain and humiliation bore her down. And 
through it all was the sharpness of the knowledge that Peter 
had not sent for her in the ardor of an unquenchable love, 
but because Jenny had roused his pity for a drifting girl, 
unable to chart her own course. 

No wonder that throughout the years of his marriage he 
had tugged at his chains. He, of whom Myra Kenyon had 
said, ‘. . . free, as always you would be free/ 

And she — Thaisa — had taken his freedom from him. 
Here then lay the answer to all his struggles and dis¬ 
satisfactions. 

True, he had cared, back there in Ranger. But she was 
older now and more experienced, and she could under¬ 
stand how her intense romanticism had had its influence 
upon him. 

When he left her to take up his own life, she must have 
become a shadowy phantom to him. Oh, always a tender 
feeling for the little child he had known and for the girl 
of a summer’s playtime, but no lasting, no deep emotion. 

. . . Thus intensifying, going beyond the truth of Peter, 
but hurt too deeply to discriminate. . . . 

And then plunging into herself, coming upon submerged 
memories of lost adventures, lost beauties. . . . One walk¬ 
ing with her through the woods, dancing and singing with 
her. 

She had not known herself. A little time, leisure to think, 


The Third Weaver 


i79 


to understand, and she and Peter might both have been 
saved. 

She looked about the room. Here the drama of their mar¬ 
ried life had been played. Here the struggles and the re¬ 
bellions. The alienation. . . . And then, such a short time 
ago just before Peter’s going, the reconciliation — the attempt 
to draw close together in a desert island of intimacy, to 
kindle new fires. . . . Well, the smell of sacrifice was on the 
hearth. 

She felt the heritage of her grandmother falling upon her, 
but now she did not shrink, rather in truth welcomed the 
mantle as a shield. Ice formed within her and the resolution 
that life should never again touch her. Isolate, she would 
go her way — isolate and immune. 

She rose. ‘ Mother,’ she said quietly, ‘ I want to be alone. 
You must take the boys with you.’ 

‘Take the boys with me! What would I do with them 
in New York?’ 

‘ Leave them with Aunt Sarah, if necessary.’ 

‘ Eh, you’re a hard one,’ Jenny cried, angered and fright¬ 
ened too at what her impulsive tongue had brought to pass. 
‘ Is it because I wrote the letter? ’ 

Thaisa put out a beseeching hand. ‘ I don’t want to talk 
about it, Mother.* 

But Jenny persisted, though still frightened by this 
white storm she had evoked. ‘Why you should take 
on in this way simply because I fixed things for you ? ’ 
She broke off as Thaisa turned away, but continued 
bravely: ‘ Peter Dagmar still cared for you. It was all just a 
misunderstanding.’ 


i8o 


The Third Weaver 


‘ The boys are coming in; you’ll have to dress them in a 
hurry,’ said Thaisa. ‘ I’ll call a taxi.’ 

‘Yes, you’re a hard one,’ Jenny repeated. ‘And I re¬ 
member how tender you could be back there when the boys 
were born. It was as though you just showered love.’ A 
while before, had Jenny revealed that she had cherished such 
a memory, Thaisa would have been deeply touched, but 
now she remained unmoved. 

‘ Yes, you’ve a marble streak,’ Jenny plunged in again. 
‘ As I’ve said, you’re all soft till you get the bit in your teeth, 
like your lady grandmother.’ 

But even this did not disturb Thaisa, she who all her life 
had dreaded turning to stone. So Jenny went about calling 
the boys, hurrying them into their best clothes, packing their 
few belongings, her eyes warily upon Thaisa who stood so 
tall, so white, there near the window. 

At the end: ‘ Good-bye, Thaisa. . . .’ 

‘ Good-bye, Mother. I shall be glad if you will say nothing 
of this to Peter, when you see him in New York.’ 

‘ I’ve had enough of talk,’ Jenny returned shortly. She 
was more impressed by this white-faced daughter than ever 
before in her life. Also, she felt the wind of a bitter tragedy, 
and Jenny, for the moment, was at a loss, helpless. 

24 

Reba and Strangeley were kind, for they saw that Thaisa 
had been deeply hurt. Reba came to the studio and found 
Thaisa packing. ‘ What’s this ? ’ she cried. 

‘ I’m going away.’ 


The Third Weaver 


181 

‘ Thaisa, something has gone terribly wrong. Let me 
help.’ 

4 No one can help, Reba.’ 

‘ See here, Thaisa, let’s you and I run away — to Europe — 
anywhere.’ 

‘ You’re kind, Reba, but I’m going away alone.’ 

Reba stood silent. 4 If I can help in any way, will you let 
me know ? ’ 

4 1 will let you know.’ 

Reba kissed Thaisa’s pale cheek. Then, half blinded by 
tears, she left the studio, and went down a side street. So 
she missed Strangeley, also calling on Thaisa. 

He stood for a moment looking at her as she remained, 
white and motionless, standing in the place Reba had left 
her. 

4 1 came to tell you that I can get you in with the new Stock 
Theatre on the North Side, Thaisa,’ he began. ‘Profes¬ 
sionals! ’ 

4 Thank you, but I’m going away.’ 

‘Alone?’ 

4 Yes. I want to be quite alone. 

4 1 see. Well, I am glad you are doing this. But you will 
return into the world some day, and then . . .’ He broke 
off, put out his hand and then he, too, was gone. 

In the night, the place, sharp and clear, where she might 
hide away from the world and from life, stood revealed to 
her. This was the abandoned shack in Ranger. Here she 
would be left quite alone. She felt confident that Richard 
and Jenny would not return to Portland. 

The day she left Chicago, a letter came from Peter saying 


182 


The Third Weaver 


that Jenny had arrived in New York with the two boys; 
that Richard, since his family had descended upon him, had 
decided to remain in New York. As for himself, all was 
going well. He had made several good contacts and, until 
Jenny had come upon the scene, he and Richard had been 
busy and happy. 

Thaisa prepared herself to write to him — not an answer 
to his letter, but a statement of her decision. In a day she 
was ready, calm and strong for her task. 

She told him that she was going away — leaving him — to 
find freedom, because the end of their life together had 
come. She believed that their marriage should never have 
been, and she knew he would agree with her. The fact that 
— before his going — they had seemed to recapture their 
first thrills did not alter this truth. She saw now that their 
marriage had been a mistake. Solitude was now the boon 
she most craved, and this he could make it possible for her 
to have if he would make no attempt to seek her out. She 
had sufficient money for her simple needs for some time 
to come, and she reiterated that the kindest act on his part 
was to let her go out of his life, with no effort to find and 
discuss any future. She had asked the janitor of the studio¬ 
building to communicate directly with Peter in New York, 
as to his wishes regarding what should be done about the 
little apartment. 

A definite letter, she felt, and while for a time he might 
feel hurt, perhaps angered, by her stand, still deep in his 
heart there would be relief. But two days later, she received 
a telegram. He could not understand this sudden decision. 
He had closely questioned Jenny, but Jenny too was ignorant 


The Third Weaver 


183 


of anything that might have caused this change. He meant 
to return at once to Chicago — or would she not come on to 
New York so they might talk things out? 

Talk things out! She could see him, depressed because he 
felt that she was unhappy. He had always wanted to be 
kind. And yet — she reminded herself —Peter caught! . . . 
Peter, who had wanted to go free, and still had been caught! 

She answered him so definitely that he must accept the 
truth that all had ended between them. His pride alone, she 
felt, would not allow him further to attempt to dissuade her 
from carrying out her plans. She meant to write to Rich¬ 
ard, but she depended on Peter to still any concern Richard 
might feel, even to the point of admitting the definite separa¬ 
tion. ‘ Assure him,’ she told Peter, ‘ that I am well provided 
for — as I am — and that the kindest act would be to let me 
have my way.’ 

To Richard, she revealed her intense desire to be left alone, 
to go her own way, with no intrusion into her life. ‘ I have 
proved,’ she finished, * that I can take care of myself. And 
I promise you that if ever real need should arise, I will get in 
touch with you at once. I want to be left alone more than I 
have ever wanted anything in my life. Father, you will 
understand.’ 

To Jenny, in care of Aunt Sarah, she wrote that she was 
going away for a rest. She charged again that what had 
passed between them was never to be spoken of to Peter, to 
Richard. 

And so she turned her back on life. 


PART FIVE 


I 

A hot day in July she reached Beasley, the town 
north of Ranger, to discover that the electric street car had 
been discontinued. She stood and gazed about. As far as 
she could see, there appeared no sign of life. Small valise in 
hand, she commenced her long walk. The valley through 
which she passed seemed lifeless, and here and there hop 
fields, from which the posts and wires had been razed, lay 
bleak and drab. . . . When the sun was setting, she reached 
the shack. 

She pushed through the broken gate and went down the 
hard dirt walk until she came to the steps where so often 
she and Peter had sat and talked of their love story. 
Now all was wild solitude. To the left was what had 
been once a large wheat field, but evidently the renting 
farmer had long since gone from the red house a mile 
away. . . . The twittering birds lent now the only note 
of life. 

After a time she rose and tried the front door. It opened 
to her hand, and she entered and stood in the large room 
with its conglomerate and shabby furniture, its worn rug 
and wooden chairs. 

She walked to the twins’ room and looked about. Neg¬ 
lected — dust over everything — but little changed. It was 
all as she remembered, even to the rusty gun — standing in 
one corner — which Richard had used occasionally in a hunt 

184 



The Third Weaver 


185 

for rabbits. What tenants there had been apparently had left 
no marks of their own upon the place. 

She removed her hat, found a broom and duster and went 
to work. As she swept, she seemed to glimpse two young 
figures playing there in the road — two young figures going 
through the deep and fragrant woods. She heard the tinkle 
of guitars and singing voices. But it was all of memory and 
of no substance. 

She finished cleaning the house and went to sit on the 
steps, from where she could look off into the rapidly falling 
night. Desolate and barren, the country stretched all about 
her. In the road, a narrow rut ran. She supposed old Benja¬ 
min, the postman, still came by twice a week in his rickety 
cart. 

He went through Ranger, she recalled, on to Armitage, 
and then back again to Beasley. He was a kindly old man, 
with thick, white hair and bent shoulders, and he had called 
her Mis’ Thaisa. During Peter’s visit he had been ill, and 
one of the neighboring farm boys had brought the mail. 

So she let her thoughts wander idly until night came. 
Then she went indoors, found the old lamp on a shelf in the 
kitchen, and lit it, making a mental note that she must obtain 
kerosene and a supply of wicks. 

And that night for the first time since Jenny’s story, she 
slept long and dreamlessly. 


2 

Hour by hour, time crept by. Arousing herself one 
day, Thaisa realized that, though an eternity seemed to 


i86 


The Third Weaver 


have been lived by her since Peter’s going, only one month 
had elapsed. 

One month to come from a full experience of life to this 
desolate hiding place — this refuge where life could never 
again find her. Days with no planning toward any 
future. . . . 

By inquiry of old Benjamin, she found a farm one mile 
beyond the empty MacFarland place, where she made ar¬ 
rangements to buy milk and eggs and occasionally fresh 
bread baked by Mrs. Morrison, the farmer’s wife. Instinc¬ 
tively, Thaisa disliked this woman’s cold, curious eyes, but 
on the surface she was wholly disinterested. 

These people, middle-aged and arid, had not known her 
father, but had heard him spoken of, so they called her 
Worthington, and she did not take the trouble to put them 
right. 

One truth that she learned disturbed her slightly. Ian 
came here perhaps twice a year to look over his aunt’s farm 
— usually in spring and fall. But here again she stilled her 
heart. For what — since she had repudiated life — could 
Ian matter to her now ? 

On her old bookshelf, she found her Shakespeare and 
near by a book of Peter’s: Nietzsche’s * Zarathustra.’ She 
read these books as she sat in the sun in an old rocking-chair 
which she had salvaged from a gully that ran in back of the 
house. Here she had found traces of tenants and their odd 
ways, and had been compelled to amend her first thought 
that no debris had been left. She spent two days clearing 
out the gully and burning the rubbish. 

But she did not mind the work. To keep busy with her 


The Third Weaver 


187 

hands was surcease, so that her mind did not run on and on. 
Only at night did the glacial mood melt somewhat. Tears 
would come scaldingly to her eyes. 

But she determined to conquer this weakness. Softness 
should not touch her again, ever. She had removed herself 
from everything that might hurt. And she had been hurt 
sufficiently. Now all was finished. 

The long, long days! She marked their going on a calen¬ 
dar that old Benjamin had brought to her. Sunday, church 
bells ringing. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, all alike in 
quiet, uninterrupted hours from dawn, when she rose, till 
sunset, with color dripping over field and far mountain tops. 

Thursday, Friday and Saturday, the day like a ship, once 
dedicated to Peter. Now, on this day her solitude was occa¬ 
sionally broken by the passing of a farmer’s wagon on the 
way to town. 

Automatically, she would raise her hand to return a greet¬ 
ing, but never did she walk toward the road where she might 
be drawn into conversation — be the subject of conjecture. 

Once she said aloud: ‘I have been here forever,’ and the 
sound of her voice frightened her. But she had, she found, 
been in her isolation just six weeks. 

Six weeks—and an eternity stretched before her. She 
looked about for work with which to occupy her days. Since 
her time, the rough plastered walls had been smoothed down 
and an attempt made at papering. But this paper was faded 
and falling. She thought of its renewal as something to 
make the hours less leaden in their passing. 

After she had removed all the fallen paper, she walked one 
day to Beasley and bought a new stock at the country store. 


18 8 


The Third Weaver 


And while paying for her purchase and wondering how pos¬ 
sibly she could carry it the intervening miles, she decided to 
wait for Benjamin. 

When he came, she put the paper and other staples into his 
cart and rode back to the shack. ‘ If there’s anything I can 
ever do for you, let me know, Mis’ Thaisa,’ Benjamin said, 
as he was departing. Never did he ask her any questions, 
and she was grateful for his sensitive reticence. He too was 
alone, as was she. No kin and perhaps no close friends. 
He understood. 

She went to her paper hanging. A hard, puzzling job. 
And not good work when finished. But an air of freshness 
was in the place; the clusters of old fashioned flowers lent 
an air of quiet cheer. 

This task finished, she spent hours wandering through the 
woods. The cathedral silence, the great trees, the murmur¬ 
ing streams seemed all to welcome her back. But her 
thoughts went on beyond them. 

She thought of Jenny — Jenny a rebel, desiring passion 
and color. Thaisa had a swift recollection of her when in 
Manchester, hating the formality of the Worthington life, 
fighting her battles to hold Richard. . . . Jenny, making 
her patterns, using the material that best suited her own 
purposes. 

And Richard, that other from whom she had sprung. A 
memory of the Irish moors and the walk in the rain came to 
her. . . . The times he had sung. She touched all these 
spiritual realities. The hunger of her childhood, the physi¬ 
cal wants were as nothing. The beauty of the walk in the 
rain and the song had meant all to her. 


The Third Weaver 


189 


She thought she would like to see Richard; then quickly 
she suppressed this desire. She would go her way alone. 

One day a dilapidated pony cart approached the shack, 
and the driver looking about, hesitant, finally decided to 
stop. Thaisa from her front door saw a woman descend and 
come up the path carrying a small valise. 

As the visitor neared, Thaisa felt the impulse to run, but 
she forced herself to wait. A thin, middle-aged woman 
spoke pleasantly: ‘Oh, may I come in for a moment? I 
lost my way and have driven miles, I think, over deserted 
roads; scarcely a house in sight.’ 

Thaisa opened the door, and the woman entered and 
seated herself in a chair. ‘I’m selling silk scarves, em¬ 
broidered center pieces and shell-stitch bandings,’ she said. 
‘ And I’ve seen two farmers’ wives today! ’ 

‘ I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ said Thaisa. 

When she returned with her tray, the visitor drank the 
tea eagerly, and between bites of small cakes, exploited her 
wares. 

‘ Perhaps you’d like something on this order,’ she pursued, 
and from a compartment in her valise, she produced a scarf. 
‘ Hand-woven,’ she explained. ‘ Everybody’s wild about 
them.’ 

It was lovely. ‘ I’ll take the scarf, if it isn’t too expensive,’ 
Thaisa agreed. 

‘ You’ll never be sorry; two dollars.’ 

Thaisa counted out the money. Afterwards she watched 
the woman go down the path, climb into the decrepit buggy 
with the patient old horse standing head down, and drive off, 
her white veil flying behind her in the wind. 


190 


The Third Weaver 


Thaisa picked up the scarf. Its glowing colors of orange 
and blue with bands of black were exquisite. And as she 
stood, she thought of Madam Lester and her colors. She lost 
herself in a maze of conjecture. If she had not gone to 
Madam Lester’s and then run from the position, she would 
never have heard Jenny’s story about the back-door episode. 
. . . Richard in the drawing room of the Michigan Avenue 
mansion — Jenny a supplicant in the kitchen. 

And it was the memory of that humiliating experience 
that later, in comparison wth Thaisa’s warm friendship with 
Reba Van Valkenburg, had aroused Jenny’s ire and caused 
her to tell the truth of the letter to Peter. And on and 
on. . . . 

But it was all useless, going through the tangle. There 
was no straightening such knotted skeins. 

3 

September had come, with its lovely nights. It was two 
months since Thaisa had said good-bye to Peter. And yet 
now — growing to be part of her environment — time 
seemed not a matter of weeks, of months, but of cycles of 
eternity. 

. . . Two months. And now material matters were be¬ 
ginning to press. Her money was running low. But she 
would not go forth from her hiding place into the world of 
men and women again — not if starvation faced her. 

Her eye fell upon the woven scarf she had bought from 
the pleasant saleswoman. And as she gazed, memory of the 
old tapestry came to her, and how she had loved that marvel 


The Third Weaver 


191 

of design and color. . . . The dancing youth, uncaring, 
free. ... To take threads, to weave a little here, a little 
there. . . . 

A loom. ... To weave. . . . 

So she wrote to Reba. She was, she told her friend, staying 
in her old home and here she wished to remain undisturbed. 
To Reba’s love, loyalty and discretion, she left the matter 
of absolute secrecy. Not even Peter, she confessed, knew 
her hiding place. 

She was writing now to ask if Reba would look into the 
matter of the cost of a small loom; also see if it were possible 
for one to learn anything of the art of weaving from a book 
of instructions. 

So sure of Reba’s understanding was she that she waited 
in calm certainty that her problem for work and new activity 
would be answered. 

And in a short time Reba answered. She did completely 
understand, and she was glad that Thaisa was free to her¬ 
self— as always she should have been free. And never to 
any other soul would she reveal the identity of that far¬ 
away place. 

She herself was not aboundingly happy. If a loom for her 
would still her restlessness, then she would go in for the 
craft of weaving. She took it that Thaisa was done with 
love, but fulfillment with disillusion seemed better than to 
go with a hidden craving for all of knowledge. 

She had heard that Peter had been back to Chicago but 
not permanently — merely to sell his furniture — and she 
had not seen him. There had been no love lost between 
them; let it go at that. 


192 


The Third Weaver 


Strangeley, she finished casually, as though he had no 
connection with her heart-cry in the letter, was still in New 
York. Often he dropped short, brilliant letters to her. 
Bertram Lewis hadn’t opened the Little Theatre again, but 
probably intended to go on with some interest along the 
same lines. Her mother was still puttering clumsily with 
philanthropy, and her father played with his butterflies. 
‘ I am sending the loom, Thaisa,’ she finished, ‘ as a gift. 
With all my heart I wish to do this. Please do not be proud, 
but accept the gift with my love.’ 

Thaisa held the letter a long time. Then, bringing her¬ 
self from contemplation of the past into her present, she put 
the missive away in a small box on her dresser. Tomorrow 
she would write, thanking Reba for her great generosity, and 
accepting the gift. 

The loom, of course, would have to be brought from Port¬ 
land. She pondered as to ways and means of carriage to 
the shack, and then she thought of Morrison, the Scotch 
farmer. She knew that he drove into the city twice a month 
on business; perhaps he would call at the express office for 
her loom. 

So she started out one morning to interview him. As she 
went, she realized that she hesitated about asking this favor 
of old Morrison. Neither he nor his wife had yet become 
friendly; not that she desired friendship, but she felt that 
their continued aloof coldness held suspicion. 

Although their Scotch efficiency had made their farm a 
paying one where others had failed, Thaisa recognized them 
as narrow and bigoted, though Morrison seemed to possess 
a primitive sense of justice. Not kindliness, but justice. She 


The Third Weaver 


193 


had heard him on one of her calls berate a visitor, a farmer 
from another township, for bad treatment of a Mexican 
employed in a hop yard. ‘ It don’t matter what he did,’ — 
she remembered the words — 4 he’s a sort of human being, 
and you’ve got to understand that in dealing with him and 
his kind.’ 

She walked on slowly. The day was mild, and as she went 
by the woods, rich and heavy fragrances were borne to her 
by soft winds. She breathed deeply, feeling herself lifted by 
the color and movement about her — liberated too. Free, 
so that neither happiness nor pain could reach her again — 
as though she had entered a convent. 

She passed the old MacFarland place. She paused and 
seemed again to hear the tinkle of the Mexican guitars, feel 
the glow of the old furnaces, and for a second a mounting 
emotion stole over her. 

Irritated at this sudden flare-up of memory when she 
thought herself immune to all things, she went on quickly. 
And then impelled she knew not by what instinct, she looked 
up. A thin spiral of smoke floated above; she saw that it 
came from a chimney on the MacFarland house. Some one 
was cooking a meal. 

Frightened now, like some wild creature afraid of people, 
she began to run, and as she went she heard a door open and 
some one come down the path. She ran faster then, for in a 
moment there was the sound of pursuing feet; and she knew 
Ian had returned, as he usually did in the fall. 

But her speed was useless. The footsteps caught up with 
her; a voice sounded near her : 4 Thaisa! Thaisa! ’ 

She stopped, her heart hammering in her ears. Her body 


194 


The Third Weaver 


quivered with weakness, and nowhere in that wide and 
deserted road was there an object against which she might 
lean for support. . . . An arm stole about her; she felt the 
strength of a lean and active body, and for a second she 
relaxed. 

Then she stood away. She looked up and cried, ‘ Ian! ’ 

‘And you, Thaisal. I felt you near and came to the 
window.’ 

He led her back down the road, in through the gate and 
up to the porch. She sank into a chair that he pulled for¬ 
ward for her and there remained in silence. . . . 

‘ Just rest, Thaisa,’ he said, and great tenderness was in 
his voice. ‘ I will bring you something hot to drink.’ 

He went away but soon returned with coffee, which she 
drank, feeling instantly revived. He drew a chair close be¬ 
side her and waited quietly until she put her cup down on the 
porch ledge. 

‘ And so we come together again, Thaisa,’ he said at last. 

She looked at him. He had changed; the golden youth 
to which so instinctively she had given response was gone; 
but now the fine maturity that spoke from him reached out to 
touch her. 

For a second she let memory return him fully to her. . . . 
The thick hair, the deep-set eyes that just now were regard¬ 
ing her so closely and with such complete understanding; 
the long, firm hands — so strong — almost articulate in their 
movements. 

She knew she must speak. ‘. . . Have you just come 
here! ’ she asked. 

‘ A day or so ago. On business for my aunt. She is trying 


The Third Weaver 


i95 


to sell the farm. This morning I meant to drive by your 
place — to remember. . . / 

The color rose hotly to her face. 

‘ You went away and married — I know that much of 
you/ he continued. ‘ Wasn’t it all very sudden? ’ 

She nodded. 

‘But you have returned. . . . Thaisa, tell me, are you 
alone ? ’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘ You have been hurt. . . / His hand reached out to 
touch hers. The soft air about them, the silence seemed to 
enclose them. But at last Thaisa recalled herself. She rose, 
saying she must be on her way, and stood a moment looking 
down the broken pathway out to the road. 

‘ Thaisa/ he asked, ‘ how long shall you be here ? ’ 

She answered directly. ‘ I am living alone in the old place 
and I wish to remain alone.’ 

‘ You mean you’d rather I’d stay away, Thaisa ? ’ 

‘ I do mean that.’ 

She started away but was stopped by his peremptory: 
‘ Thaisa, do you think I shall let you go now ? ’ 

His voice touched her, quivering into her heart as so often 
it had quivered when they wandered through the woods to¬ 
gether. Then she had not known that this emotion had 
meant love and all that love implies; for she had been very 
young and groping, vastly puzzled by life and its assaults 
upon her. 

Now she understood, but even in the ecstasy of enlighten¬ 
ment, she brought strength to bear the tide back. She re¬ 
membered that love, for all its allure, all its promise of 


196 


The Third Weaver 


beauty, inevitably failed. And never again would she 
allow its song to call to her heart. She had put herself 
aside from life and now she stood very straight away from 
Ian. 

4 I am going back to my little house,’ she said coldly, 4 and 
you must not ever come seeking me. For I am finished.’ 

4 Finished! You have not yet begun, Thaisa.’ 

4 Finished — finished with all that can be between a man 
and a woman. I’ll never be caught again.’ 

So she walked away from him, down the sagging steps 
and out into the road. And though his eyes followed hers 
with a hurt and stricken look in them, she was not deterred 
by the knowledge that this was so. 

And forgetting her errand to the Morrison farm, she 
turned and walked straight back to her lonely shack. 

For all the real joy Ian’s return had given her, Thaisa was 
determined that if he came seeking her, she would go away, 
even if this meant a stealthy leaving in the night. But he 
did not come. And the time passed and she began to feel 
secure that he was gone. 


4 

Then one late September day, when rose and mauve colors 
lay in the sky, she walked through the woods again and, 
coming to a little brook that she had always loved, there she 
saw Ian standing. 

She paused, looked about for escape, but he stepped near 
her, put his hand on hers and quieted her. 

4 1 have waited here every day,’ he told her, 4 knowing that 


The Third Weaver 


i97 


sooner or later you too would come. We both loved this 
place, you remember, Thaisa.’ 

‘ But there is nothing to be gained by our seeing each 
other.’ 

‘Isn’t there? . . . But that I don’t admit.’ 

She shook her head. ‘ It’s of no use, Ian.’ 

‘ Thaisa, you cannot shut yourself away like this. Aren’t 
there those who care what you do ? ’ 

To this question she gave no answer. ‘I ask little, 
Thaisa. But to know that you are here within reach and 
will not let me see you! . . .’ 

‘ I am sorry.’ 

‘ Let me be your friend. All I ask is to be near you, to 
help you in any way.’ 

She searched into his ardent face. He was sincere and 
strong, and she knew that now in truth he would ask nothing 
that she could not give. 

. If you should come, you won’t be hurt if I don’t talk 
sometimes, or even if I should go away from you ? ’ she asked 
at last. 

‘ I shall not be hurt nor even curious, Thaisa.’ 

So she said he might come to the shack. He drove over in 
an open car, the noise of which drew her to the window. 
And he came inside and stayed an hour. When he left, 
a shaft of loneliness struck her, so that when two days 
later he again appeared, she felt a momentary glowing 
warmth. 

This time, finding her more responsive, he told her some¬ 
thing of himself. He was junior member, of a San Francisco 
firm of engineers and he had been trusted with a few very 


198 


The Third Weaver 


worth-while jobs. Thaisa recalled that Richard had spoken 
of Ian’s being on the road to making himself famous. There 
was force and quality in him. 

4 I’ve had a strenuous year, and I’ve asked for a further 
leave of absence,’ he finished, and he turned to her with a 
searching look. But Thaisa moved her eyes away from his 
and her lips closed firmly together. 

She too had known ambitions, but even these she had put 
aside. Still Ian’s ambitions stirred her. While he remained 
impersonal, she encouraged him to go on. 

For, as he sat near her in these lovely autumn days, despite 
her resolute turning from life, he awakened her. His deep 
voice unlocked memories of other days when he and she had 
played together. And his ardent manner of describing far 
lands brought back thoughts of an earlier time when, dis¬ 
trait and questioning, she had walked through the woods 
with him and vibrated to the glorious pictures of life he drew 
for her. 

But always there was ice in the face she turned toward him. 
She would not allow him again to enter her heart. 

Still he came. And when a card from an express office 
arrived, saying that Thaisa’s loom had been delivered in 
Portland, Ian insisted upon driving to the city to procure the 
crate. 

He started early one day, and late in the afternoon re¬ 
turned, the great awkward package tied behind the car. 

Together they lifted the loom into the house, uncovered it 
and set it near the east window in the large room. Reba had 
sent a thick book of instructions and a great deal of raw 
material, both wool and silk. 


The Third Weaver 


i 99 


‘ Is all this just for recreation ? ’ Ian asked. 

* At first, while I learn. In time I may make enough, if I 
can open a market, to support myself. I need little.’ 

Thaisa! ’ he cried, and stopped. But there was in his 
voice such deep and exquisite desire to serve her that she 
turned quickly away and went out through the open door, 
down the road and out of his straining sight. 

And though he waited until night came on, Thaisa did 
not return. 

5 

In time, after concentrated study of the book of direc¬ 
tions, Thaisa understood fairly well the first rudiments of 
her new art, and when Ian appeared, her eyes continued 
bright and interested. 

As though there had been no tension between them, she 
began to talk. * The wind has been from the south,’ she said, 
‘ and it has rained for days. I’ve stayed at my loom.’ 

‘ It rained at my place too,’ he said, laughing at her. 

‘ Oh, of course. . . .’ 

‘So you see you are one with me,’ he went on, but she 
would not let him continue. She showed him what she had 
accomplished with her wools. ‘In time I’ll have a small 
rug woven,’ she said, ‘ and for colors, I’ll choose lavender 
and gold.’ 

‘ You look today,’ he told her, ‘ like the Thaisa who dared 
me to wrest the ball from her.’ 

She smiled, but still she would not enter that path of per¬ 
sonalities. ‘ See how easy it really is. . . .’ She mounted the 
platform before the loom and with her feet on the treadles 


200 


The Third Weaver 


moved her threads back and forth, slowly throwing the large 
shuttle from end to end. 

‘ Wonderful,’ he exclaimed, looking at her as at an ex¬ 
quisite picture. After a pause: ‘ But really you’ve been stick¬ 
ing too close to this work, Thaisa. Let’s take a walk.’ 

She took down her hat and sweater and went with him 
into the lovely cool day. They turned toward the woods. 
The sweet, moist air touched their faces as they entered the 
green paths. 

Suddenly they began to talk as they had talked when 
young and free and wandering hand in hand. Thaisa re¬ 
membered that, more than anything else, she had wanted 
songs and high winds. Laughter, she had believed, was an 
inside self. She had even thought it was the only sound that 
would go on living. 

‘Beauty is man’s greatest heritage,’ said Ian. ‘Do you 
remember we thought man a blasphemer when he didn’t 
believe in this heritage.’ 

‘You did; you were far beyond me,’ she said. 

‘ No. . . . Thaisa, you wanted to act at one time. I re¬ 
member how you spoke Shakespeare’s lines: 

— ‘ Daffodils 

That come before the swallow dares, and take 
The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, 

But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes 
Or Cytherea’s breath.’ 

She nodded. ‘These woods seemed then to be what 
Shakespeare meant. But always I endowed all things with 


The Third Weaver 


201 


the beauty I craved.’ She paused. ‘ I did play awhile in a 
Little Theatre. But nothing has been of importance.’ 

Compassion was in his face. ‘ But you will have your 
chance, I know that, Thaisa.’ 

‘ It doesn’t matter, truly, Ian.’ 

They walked on, the brushwood soft beneath their feet. 
* I feel now that I shall never want to act again,’ she said. 
‘ Sometimes I want to write, but then all art is allied.’ 

‘ Yes, if you’re-creative and denied, sometimes you do turn 
to another expression, or to religion perhaps, some kind of 
self-protection.’ 

‘ If one could be like a child living near the heart of things 
— the meaning.’ She stopped and he waited. 4 The child 
has no understanding of abnormality, deformity, pain. I re¬ 
member once trying to elicit small Richard’s pity for a crip¬ 
pled woman, but his face was a cold, white blank. “ I don’t 
like broken ladies,” he said.’ 

Ian smiled and still waited. ‘ The days pass, and nothing 
seems greatly to count. Is that ever the way with you, Ian ? ’ 

‘ Sometimes. We know all experience repeats itself from 
age to age. And often you feel there’s nothing new for you 
to give, or to perceive.’ 

‘ Yes, that is true. Back there in Chicago there was a 
time of wandering for me. . . . Lectures by a Brahmin. . . . 
He was very good and something he said about loving one’s 
self — a great self-respect — stayed with me for a long time. 

‘There are all kinds of schools and ideas, and nothing 
really to hold to unless it’s some simple thing, so simple it 
eludes you,’ she finished. 

‘ After all, isn’t it really what answers for the individual? ’ 


202 


The Third Weaver 


She moved closer to him, drawn irresistibly because he had 
given her a deep understanding. 4 Oh, Ian, yes; only what 
you hew out for yourself is wholly true for you.’ 

But the glow faded. 4 It’s all like feeling into echoes. . . 

4 Dear Thaisa,’ he cried, and drew her to him. She stood, 
sinking in his embrace. ‘Thaisa, you cannot put yourself 
away from life — you so richly endowed.’ 

But memory returned to her. She looked about at the 
tall and majestic trees near by, the brook purling its way over 
the smooth stones, the yellow and springing turf beneath her 
feet, and sadness once again crept upon her. 4 1 am done 
with all that would take me back into the stream,’ she said. 

4 But what if you have known pain, Thaisa ? That is the 
common lot! ’ 

4 Yes, the common lot, I know. Then I am weak, and ter¬ 
ribly afraid. I don’t want to experience life ever again.’ 

He held her against any strength of hers to escape. 4 You 
weak, Thaisa? No! And if you are, come with me and 
together we will face the world.’ 

But she did not respond. 

4 1 do not remember you as hiding from realities,’ he 
went on. 

4 No, realities are of truth,’ she answered, 4 and I have not 
hidden from realities.’ 

4 Then come with me into the reality of our love. Thaisa, 
something happened to you. You turned away from me, 
and I never understood why. You need not tell me — only 
take my love, all that I am. . . . Oh, my darling, it could 
all be such an adventure for us! ’ 

Now he touched even the frozen places, and she looked 



The Third Weaver 


203 


at him, her eyes deepening to black. Then she said sadly, 
‘ But it is all too late, Ian. The terrible part of life is that 
understandings do come too late.’ 

‘No — no! We will make no promises. Only while we 
are together in this place, let us believe the past is dead. 
Thaisa, just pretend that the things you once dreamed are 
true.’ 

But she did not answer. Life had hurt her too deeply for 
any new adjustment. She was done with life. 

6 

Now, when she thought of Peter, it was as though he had 
crept like a shadow into her life and had gone like one. 
Three months, and she had heard nothing from him. She 
was intensely relieved that he had not tried to seek her out. 

She was growing skilful with her loom craft. But now 
she was not so well. Even in the clear, light air, the long 
walks in the woods, she was not revived. She grew thinner 
and her health constantly poorer. 

Was death, she wondered, to be the answer to all her pain? 
She thought she did not care greatly if this were true. Then, 
one day, as she sat at her loom, weaving back and forth, the 
long period of her mental and physical strain seemed to 
come to a focus. A darkness fell upon her and she felt 
suffocated. 

She rose with difficulty and groped her way to the open 
door. There she leaned against the jamb, her dizziness mak¬ 
ing all objects whirl through the blackness. . . . She knew 
that Ian was coming—was about due—and when at last 


204 


The Third Weaver 


she heard the sound of his car and saw his tall form coming 
hastily up the path, she knew immeasurable relief. 

Ian lifted her, carried her and put her upon her small 
white bed. He bathed her temples and prepared hot tea 
for her, holding the cup to her lips with one hand, while 
with the other he still supported her body. She felt his 
strength entering into her. 

Soon a warmth stole through her. And because, on his 
face, there lay an expression of great concern for her, she 
reached out her fingers and touched his very lightly; but a 
flame, deep and glowing, sprang into his eyes. 

‘You are better? ’ he asked and took no slightest advan¬ 
tage of her seeking fingers. 

After a time, she was steadier. With Ian’s help, she sat 
up and walked out into the main room, going toward her 
loom. 

But he followed and caught her hands. 4 Not again today, 
dear.’ And he left her, standing indecisive, while he went 
outdoors, returning in a moment with some object that he 
hid from her. 

4 What have you there ? ’ she asked. 

Then he revealed a treasure — a small cage in which 
hopped a golden bird, with black-tipped wings. Carefully, 
Ian placed the cage on the table near the window. 

4 Captive, but a singer,’ said Ian. 

The words, for a second, awakened Thaisa. She looked 
from the little bird to Ian, and she thought: 4 How strong 
this man is! ’ — with a strength that could endure all things. 

And then she remembered that the promise had never 
reached fulfillment. And that her faith was dead. 

Ian, seeing that to talk now was useless, went quietly away. 


The Third Weaver 


205 


7 

The little bird was companion to her, breaking with his 
music the long silences. Soon he answered her calls and 
came hopping to her finger. As she worked at her loom, he 
sang. She called him Don. 

At this period, she was applying herself to the one object 
of her life — perfecting herself in her weaving, and finding 
that every day her skill increased. 

But one day she went with Ian for a ride in his old car. 
Now she was glad to go. Not yet was she wholly attuned 
to the deadly solitude that pressed upon her in the little 
house. For a moment as they went, the world stretched out 
hands to her again. But fear turned her from that 
beckoning. 

Ian turned to her. 4 Oh, Thaisa,’ he cried, 4 the gods that 
are, grant me time and opportunity to show you how 
precious you are to me! To show you that nothing but you 
can ever count greatly in my life! ’ 

For a second, she drew closer to him. 4 Tell me, Thaisa,’ 
he went on, 4 did you not see my love and answer it before 
he came — after he had gone ? ’ 

She answered him directly: 4 Yes; but I was stupid and 
filled with confusion. And, too, Peter had always been part 
of my life — part of my destiny, I believed.’ 

4 Still you were torn, I realized that. But it didn’t seem 
true to me when I heard you had gone. We seemed so to 
belong to each other, I thought you understood and I never 
wanted to frighten you by binding words. And yet, after 
I left Ranger, I tore up a dozen letters, asking you to marry 


20 6 


The Third Weaver 


me, before one suited me. Before I mailed it, my aunt wrote 
that you had gone away to be married.’ 

The color left her face. This thwarting had all been so 
cruel. Quick to feel her every mood, he went on. 4 But it’s 
not too late, for all the years we’ve been apart, and as soon 
as we’re married, we’ll go to France and England. You’d 
like that, wouldn’t you, Thaisa ? ’ 

‘ I have never forgotten places in England.’ 

‘We’d visit your old home; then on leisurely through 
France — everywhere our desires might lead us.’ 

She moved uneasily. He was calling to her — to take her 
back into the current, the current that might rise and push 
her down once more to blinding depths. She must re¬ 
sist. . . . She would resist with all her strength. 

‘ There are practicalities, Thaisa. You must set about free¬ 
ing yourself, so that we can be together. You’ve been apart 
from your husband nearly four months. . . .’ 

‘Four months! ’ 

‘ Yes, you came here early in July, you tell me. Now it is 
the end of October.’ 

‘ Only four months! ’ It was true, she saw. But had he 
said four years, she would, for the moment, have accepted 
his word. Only four months since Peter had gaily ridden 
away! Four months since Jenny had come with her story 
of a thoughtless interference — Jenny who had been blind to 
all but her own purpose. 

‘ Surely you can sue on the ground of desertion, no matter 
what the true cause of the separation, Thaisa. We shall 
have to wait — a year perhaps — before we can marry. But 
what is a year when we think of the future ? ’ 


The Third Weaver 


207 


She shrank away from him. ‘ I can’t. ... I can’t.’ 

‘You mean you don’t want — divorce?’ 

‘ I am divorced. . . . Peter and I are done with each other 
forever.’ 

‘ But that kind of feeling isn’t enough, Thaisa beloved. 
You must go on, get a legal separation, even though the 
whole thing may be unpleasant.’ 

To this she gave no reply, and they rode on until at last 
she said: ‘ I think I’d like to go home now, Ian.’ 

Immediately he turned. When they reached her door, he 
jumped down and lifted her out of the car. 

They stood for a moment before he released her. Then: 
‘ I must return to San Francisco for a while, Thaisa. My 
firm has written to me that they can give me no more time. 
But I shall come back whenever you need me. You will 
write ? ’ 

She nodded. 

‘ There is a lawyer in Portland who has always taken care 
of my aunt’s affairs. Shall I send you a note so you may go 
in to see him ? ’ 

‘ No—no, not yet, Ian. Not yet. I will write to you.’ 

8 

Yes, she knew that all was ended as far as Peter went. 
It was enough, that in her soul she had severed that marriage 
bond. What legal disseverance could make the separation 
more complete, more final ? Of what necessity to go through 
the horror of law and court ? 

Only that she might take the plunge again into life — that 


208 


The Third Weaver 


plunge from which in terror and bitterness she shrank. So, 
unless some day Peter should ask for this kind of release, 
she would let matters ride as they were. 

With Ian not near to combat these thoughts, she could 
wholly yield to them. She loved him, not with the love 
that once she could have given to him, but with such emotion 
as could pierce her lethargy. But he must not break through 
this protection she had flung up about herself. Of that she 
was determined. 

For he would bring her into the glaring light again. And 
here, in her retreat, she was safe. A bitter, hard security sur¬ 
rounded her. A desolate waste of one day following another 
slowly, tolling one minute to the next — and no meaning 
anywhere. But she would not risk leaving her shelter. 

She saw no newspaper. . . . One day when she walked 
to the Morrison farmhouse for her milk and eggs, Mrs. Mor¬ 
rison told her that America was in the war. ... War! 
Peter and her father would be in that war. Adventure would 
beckon them with compelling finger. Jenny after all would 
lose her hold, but Jennie would not go under. She had the 
will to live strongly. If she could not follow on, she could 
wait, making her plans for the future. 

In the daylight hours now, Thaisa sat at her loom, weav¬ 
ing, more and more adeptly. Then scarcely had the light 
gone from the sky before she was lying in her bed, her eyes 
following through the small window the play of fading 
colors, crimson, yellow, purple. 

When memories came, she pushed them from her. She 
was learning to make her mind a void over which thoughts 
passed like a cloud — passed but did not touch. 


The Third Weaver 


209 


Ian wrote, a strong letter, almost a demanding one. Sep¬ 
arated from her, he knew the ardent pull of desire for her. 
More and more he wished to take her from the desolate place 
she had chosen for herself and bring her once again into 
the world. 

She was young, he reminded her, and she could not bury 
herself from life. She could not hide herself away from his 
love; for it would search her out, compel her, despite all. 
Again he told her of what might be in store for them both: 
travel in far lands; the search for beauties dreamed of. Priva¬ 
tions perhaps at times, in places to which his pioneering work 
would take him; but much compensation because, after all, 
they would be together. 

He went on painting pictures for her, calling to her, until 
as she read, her heart turned and twisted in her breast. . . . 
Till she rose and went from her loom out into the chill day, 
ran toward the road and stood watching the path adown 
which he would take her — into life and living again. 

• . . Then back again, weaving. Colors bright and shin¬ 
ing. Designs emerging. All the time feeling his hand upon 
her own. Hearing his voice in the accents she loved. 

... At last, the realization that it all came too late. For 
she could not give him what in all fairness, in all beauty, 
he should have from her. She had lost the capacity to look 
up—to see the stars; she was afraid, distrustful, unwilling 
to ford the stream with him. 

Writhing in her misery, she felt that never again could 
she emerge into the sun — into the battle. Here was her life, 
isolate, lonely, but secure from the ravening wolves that be¬ 
set men when blindly they take on bonds. 


210 


The Third Weaver 


Weakened, worn down, trembling and scarcely able to 
see through her blinding tears, catching glimpses of the 
paradise that might be for her, but knowing herself helpless 
to roll the burden from her soul, she went to her small table, 
and drawing paper and pen, answered his letter. 

When he had finished reading what she had written, he 
must know that her decision was not to be broken. Even 
though he read the anguish with which she yielded all hope, 
all possibility of participation in life, he would, she felt sure, 
not again come seeking her. 

And the letter sent, given into old Benjamin’s care, she 
felt the last tie broken. 


9 

Now her funds were almost exhausted. One day, unwill¬ 
ingly and with the mien of one emerging into the light after 
cellar-darkness, she went to Portland, carrying her loom 
work with her. 

Once in the city, in the world of hurrying men and 
women, she felt an alien, a solitary, coming to a strange 
land. Fortunate she felt herself, that the first store to 
which she offered her wares accepted them, and feeling 
that their loveliness would attract, ordered more from 
her. 

Not elated, only relieved, she hastened to her train. Ben¬ 
jamin had promised to wait for her in Beasley and carry her 
on to Ranger. And as she alighted from the train, she saw 
him seated in his cart, waiting for her. 

Benjamin, after his pleasant greeting, started off. He 


The Third Weaver 


211 


avoided a rut in the bad road and cut inadvertently into an¬ 
other, which made the old horse stumble. Thaisa, thrown 
to one side of the cart, righted herself with some difficulty. 
A queer throb touched her. 

‘ Are you hurt, Mis’ Thaisa ? 9 Benjamin inquired, stop¬ 
ping the cart and looking at her with concern. 

‘ No.’ But she felt faint and sick. 

They went on then. Carefully he selected the better part 
of the road and at last, greatly to her relief, they reached 
the shack. 

‘ You’re still white,’ Benjamin said. ‘ Can I do any¬ 
thing ? ’ 

‘ No, thank you. I’ll be quite all right after I’ve rested 
a bit.’ 

So the old man went on. Thaisa lay down and fell into a 
deep sleep. When she awoke, she felt rested. She went 
into the kitchen, greeted Don and make her frugal supper 
of bread and milk, first setting her table daintily — recalling 
how often she had watched her grandmother set her tray for 
a solitary tea. Fine linen—Thaisa had only cotton, but 
snow-white — cup and saucer, polished glass and silverware, 
and in a small vase one tiny wax flower that had been left 
in the shack. 

Afterwards she washed up, threw a shawl over her shoul¬ 
ders and, carrying Don with her, went outdoors. She placed 
the bird’s cage on a tree branch and sat down on the steps 
to watch the sun go down. Ripples of color ever changing, 
darting across the breast of the sky like the butterflies that 
Reba’s father loved. 

Quiet was spread over all; no sound save Don’s trills and 


212 


The Third Weaver 


the answering calls of free birds. The day had been a 
trying one for her, and now back in her place, she felt a 
touch of soft peace. 

She sat very still, alone in her world. ... Very still, gaz¬ 
ing out upon the quickly departing day. Clear color now, 
the butterflies melting into long fingers of pearl, interwoven 
by a ribbon of blue and golden snow clouds. 

She sat on the steps of the old shack, a speck in the large 
and open world about her — alone, set aside, never to be 
awakened to deep living again. 

. . . Then all at once terrifyingly feeling herself the same 
tiny speck, but a means also, and — oh, God! — with a 
throb of intense rejection — of being a vessel slowly filling— 
a container. 

Her head went down to her knees. In the stillness, she 
waited. 

Yes, w T ithin her again, as in the afternoon, a movement 
like the fluttering of a bird’s wing; like the fluttering of 
Don’s wing in his barred cage. . . . 

She waited, gazing out into the west again, compelling 
herself to deep and slow rhythmic breaths. 

. . . And waited! 

Then again the stirring — but stronger—of purpose, 
compelling to surrender that part of her which wildly de¬ 
nied, which pushed aside belief in this possibility. 

Suddenly she rose, ran into the road, stood with arms out- 
thrust before her, hands cupped and up, not to receive, but 
in a wild supplication that she was not thus to be caught again 
and thrown back into confusion. 

She thought then, in her agony, to walk and to come to 


The Third Weaver 


213 

some place in this, her forsaken world, where an end might 
be — an end to herself, to all consciousness. 

. . . And madly to run from an invader that she knew — 
even as she went toward the setting sun — she could never 
escape. . . . That for always would accompany her, be of 
her life. . . . 

This day — another day of her freedom, her isolation — 
this day discovering that she was repository for Peter’s child. 

Peter's child . 

After a time, she walked back to the shack. She was able 
faintly to greet Don, who chirruped lustily; but in a mo¬ 
ment, with the appalling significance of her discovery fall¬ 
ing full upon her, wild sobs tore at her throat. Then 
suddenly she was quiet. Perhaps in her travail, death would 
come upon her. 

. . . Death and release. 


10 

The next morning she woke on a note of harsh, bitter 
laughter and scarcely recognized the sound as coming from 
her own lips. She had thought the past was gone, erased. 
And out of that dead past she was bringing living, vibrant 
life. Not ever could she walk free. 

She forced herself to a calm surveyal of the present situa¬ 
tion. Before, there had been thought of a child, and signs 
had proved false. That was why, in these past few months, 
she had given no value to symptoms. Now she remembered 
her dizziness, the time when Ian had come in and found her 
f aintin g, and she had not understood. 


214 


The Third Weaver 


And the days went, bringing verification. No mistake 
this time. And she must wrench her life to a great 
readjustment. 

Ian answered her letter. He must accept her will, he 
said, but hope still reigned in his heart. ... Just now 
he was thinking of getting into the war. He would let her 
know. 

In silence the days followed one after another. Thaisa’s 
loom work was creating a demand. She had specialized on 
a certain kind of scarf, and orders for them began to come 
from San Francisco, from Texas and from the east. She 
knew that Ian had had a hand in these orders. 

Days, she worked at her loom in deep concentration, intent 
on new designs, unusual color combinations. And Benja¬ 
min became her staunch henchman, her medium now be¬ 
tween the world and her isolated abode. From Beasley he 
brought her needed staples, and also from that place the 
soft white muslin that at night she fashioned into her child’s 
layette. 

And the burden she carried grew and was strong, so that 
she spent many hours of fatigue; and going listlessly for her 
milk and butter, she soon found Mrs. Morrison’s startled eyes 
fixed upon her. 

And as winter progressed, a hard question grew in the 
woman’s eyes. Thaisa told her that her husband was in 
France, in the war zone — as she was confident Peter was. 

But Mrs. Morrison, Thaisa saw, preferred to draw her own 
conclusions, since these gave an interesting fillip to monot¬ 
onous days. And the puritan in her knew the desire to 
lash out and hurt another woman who dared to flaunt all 


The Third Weaver 


2i 5 


the decencies by remaining alone under the circumstances, 
while claiming a husband in France! 

Still, Thaisa must not grow angry nor turn away. For the 
time was approaching when she would need some woman’s 
aid. But soon it became an ordeal both physical and spiritual 
to turn her steps toward the Morrison farm and face Mrs. 
Morrison’s prying, curious eyes. 

There came the time when she must take definite action. 
So once again she turned to old Benjamin, her friend. And 
one day he drove her in to Beasley where a country doctor 
had his sign. 

In a dingy, small office, she was booked for a certain date 
and asked about a nurse and other necessities. ‘ A hospital 
in Portland ? ’ he suggested, and Thaisa nodded, marking 
down the date given to her. 

Later when her time was very near she went to Mrs. Mor¬ 
rison. She would need some one to help her for a period 
after her return from the hospital. But the woman shook 
her head. She would be very busy. ... It was too far to 
walk between the two places. . . . Many excuses. 

‘ So you will not help me ? ’ Thaisa asked at length. She 
was cold and trembling now as she stood in Mrs. Morrison’s 
immaculate kitchen facing the tall, gaunt woman. 

‘ It would be against my principles.’ 

Thaisa did not answer that. It was growing late, and 
Benjamin, so kind, so strongly her friend, waited outside 
to take her home. A trying day. She made another attempt. 
‘Even though you censure me, refuse to believe the truth 
that I am a married woman, couldn’t you put aside your 
prejudices for the sake of the child ? ’ 


21 6 


The Third Weaver 


‘No! ’ Sudden anger came into the woman’s voice. ‘It 
isn’t fair that you should be favored with a child. All my 
life I’ve hungered for one, and I’ve walked straight in the 
fear of the Lord — yet have I been denied.’ And then as 
abruptly returning to her cold manner: ‘It wouldn’t be 
right; lessons should be taught.’ 

Thaisa turned and walked out into the road where old 
Benjamin waited, talking to Morrison, the farmer. Some¬ 
thing in Thaisa’s face startled both men. 

‘ You’d better have Mis’ Morrison come along with us,’ 
old Benjamin cried. 

‘ She won’t come. . . .’ Thaisa spoke through drawn lips. 

‘ I’ll take you home,’ said old Benjamin, ‘ and go on for 
the doctor.’ 

He realized that Thaisa could not now take the trip to 
Portland to the hospital. Very carefully, he drove back to 
the shack. 


ii 

Two hours later, Thaisa, alone, wracked with pain, beheld 
from her window a strange sight. From afar down the road 
came Morrison, the farmer with the wide, determined face, 
the beard trimmed so square and broad. Before him, he 
drove his wife. 

He held no whip, but the impression could not be missed 
that he did wield a long and snake-like instrument of tor¬ 
ture that sent his victim before him. His granite face was 
set, the lips tightly held, the small eyes cold as glass. 

The woman, reluctant, resentful, yet afraid to disobey, 


The Third Weaver 


21 7 

went before him, at times writhing as though the whip 
flecked her shoulders. 

The pair turned in at the gate—came down the path. 
Thaisa, her face blanched, opened the door to them. 

‘Ma’am, Miss Worthington,’ Morrison began, ‘Ma’am, 
I’ve brought her to your help. It’s a woman’s bitter hour, 
and she’s never known it. Let her see now.’ 

He watched his wife, at his command, don an apron, go 
to the kitchen stove and commence to build a fire, all in 
bitter silence. Then he betook himself to the tree stump 
outside, alert to discover and overcome immediately any 
insubordination. 

After a time, Thaisa, remembering the hand on her shoul¬ 
der that early morning when Jenny so abruptly awoke her, 
said to Mrs. Morrison, who was now sitting black with anger 
near the blazing stove: ‘Could you help me a little? ’ 

Compelled perhaps by the sheer agony in Thaisa’s eyes, 
the woman rose and lent her aid. 

And so the journey began. 

12 

Through it all, Thaisa, a little light-headed, thought she 
was enacting the story of life and that through all the agony 
she must not falter. . . . 

Even after the doctor finally arrived — and all the hours 
through the night till dawn, while the battle raged — the 
old farmer kept his place without, moving about at times, 
but always within range of the door. 

. . . Till a small cry arose, and in time a portly figure ap- 


2i8 The Third Weaver 

peared at the door and Mrs. Morrison bore the trophy of a 
woman’s victory. And she smiled with pride as she beck¬ 
oned her husband, as though never had black anger and 
blacker censure filled her heart. 

Thaisa, white and worn, as she lay in her bed, still wan¬ 
dering a little in her mind, thought that men and women 
sometimes had to be driven with whips to partake of a 
bountiful table. 


13 

Her son! 

The thief of her dreams. He lay against her breast, tiny, 
healthy and seemingly content with his barren environment. 

Thaisa was ill for nearly a month, listless, literally tired 
out. And Mrs. Morrison came every day, now undriven, 
eager to see and to hold the child. 

Paying the doctor made heavy inroads into Thaisa’s re¬ 
sources. Mrs. Morrison, her eyes fixed greedily upon the 
child, refused any recompense. 

Her work in helping in the child’s advent gave her, in her 
own mind, a kind of authority, so that when she visited she 
brought milk and other commodities and, though childless, 
thousands of words of advice on the boy’s care and rearing. 

Thaisa named the child Justin, a name she had always 
liked. And, back at her loom as soon as ever possible, she 
wove all day, with the clothes-basket crib close beside her. 

The months passed. The boy was creeping about her 
feet, standing up, running away to be caught, and held till 
breathless against her heart. 

And he grew to be the whole of life to her. Completely 


The Third Weaver 


219 


hers, never to be shared. Peter, his father, she put away 
from her, even in this relationship. The child was hers, 
promising a beauty she had never before known. . . . 
Perfect. 

. . . Wholly hers. Yet there were times when thoughts 
of whether Peter should be told of his son came to disquiet 
her. But as Justin grew more dependent in every way upon 
her, any claims that Peter might have, faded. 

For Justin was a part of her. These processes that went 
on within her were scarcely conscious ones. The child was 
anodyne — healing and beautifying. And with the hourly 
deepening of the bond, the unshared possession became the 
automatic gesture of her life. 

And in and by this possession she lived. For here there 
was no disillusion or struggle, save the fundamental one that 
had brought this joy into being. A simple paean of mother 
and child, but raised above the commonplace by Thaisa’s 
every thought of Justin as completely her own. 

Day by day her happiness in this close companionship in¬ 
creased. She was his world, as he was hers. No other should 
ever intrude. She felt at last that she had come to her moun¬ 
tain top — that shining, clear space that had beckoned to 
her all her life. 

Peter’s share in this life held no integrity for her. She had 
been alone through the intense experience, and it seemed in¬ 
evitable that she make Justin her orbit. Now, looking down 
the long years to his manhood, she still saw herself his star, 
his need and his chosen confidante. 

She penetrated into his young soul in a way no mother 
whose life is divided might do. Secret joys she knew as she 


220 


The Third Weaver 


held her child or guided his tiny footsteps. And as she 
worked long hours into the night — worked that he might 
be well nourished and clothed — she felt exultant. A con¬ 
queror who asked odds of none. 

14 

One day Benjamin brought her a letter from Ian. He had, 
he told her, really enlisted in the war, now that America was 
in. Within a few days, he would start across the water. 
There would be time to hear from her before he sailed if she 
wrote at once. ‘ Thaisa, I love you/ he ended. ‘ I believe I 
shall come back, and that nothing shall keep us apart. Re¬ 
member this: no force in your life or anything that might 
come to me shall be of power to separate us. I am yours as 
long as life shall last, and perhaps after what we know as 
life. . . 

She sat for a long time with his letter in her hand, and 
again the thought of what might have been came upon her. 
And tears rose hot in her eyes. 

15 

The seasons passed. Work and harder work. Mrs. Morri¬ 
son still walked over every day to see the small Justin Dag- 
mar who, happy and friendly, held out his small hands at 
her approach, and laughed joyously as she picked him up 
and carried him about. 

Justin had a lovely, deliberate way with him that even at 
an early age was fascinating. Thaisa saw more and more 


The Third Weaver 


221 


that in him dwelt sincerity and a quiet power. He would 
stand before her with eagerness in his eyes, but he did not 
babble words — only that vocabulary of love in his ex¬ 
pression. Once she caught him to her, a flood of the strong¬ 
est emotion she had ever known touching her. ‘ Justin — my 
little son!’ she cried. 

‘ You are a pretty mother,’ he said slowly and quaintly. 

She looked down upon his head as he leaned against her 
knee. The light from the window struck in, and she saw, 
intensified, the slight difference she had before noticed in 
the color of his hair. 

The silver wing! This had Peter bequeathed to his son. 

With a cry she held the child closer to her breast. ‘ But 
you are mine!’ she cried aloud. ‘My son! . . . The one 
treasure in the world that cannot be taken away.’ 

Justin, a little frightened, stared into her face. He did 
not cry easily, but a questioning look was in his eyes. She 
saw that her emotion disturbed him, and quietly she 
soothed him. 

Day by day, the silver wing, lying among the dark locks 
so like her own, grew more noticeable. Sometimes a fear 
touched her. This external inheritance might go deeper 
into an adventurous spirit that would hurt both Justin and 
others. 

But perhaps this mark might be of the spirit — a some¬ 
thing to wing one far from the world and world thought 
that kept men slaves. 

Oh, for something great within herself, a silver wing 
sparkling with crystal truths to grant her wisdom and cour¬ 
age to help this young life! After this prayer then, when- 


222 


The Third Weaver 


ever noticing the white line in Justin’s head, she felt in a 
deep, recessed part of her being a stirring, as though powers 
hitherto unused were being touched awake. 

16 

Day by day now, she found she must work harder to make 
sufficient money for their needs. She had mended their 
clothes till the original pattern was almost obliterated. When 
summer came again, she spaded up the entire ground about 
the shack. And with Justin at her heels interfering, laugh¬ 
ing gaily, running away so that he must be caught and 
brought back, she planted her seeds. 

In due time the vegetables came up. She found it possi¬ 
ble to live on these, augmented by bread and milk and good 
butter from the Morrison place. Even Justin thrived on 
strained vegetable soup and milk. 

Fall came and winter again; the seasons marched while 
Thaisa raised her child. Then the war was over, and the 
after-slump set in. People did not now order such luxuries 
as she wove at her loom, and there was Justin whose needs 
constantly increased. 

She lay awake at night pondering on ways and means. It 
would be possible to go to Portland and make some kind of 
living; but to leave Justin alone all day was unthinkable. 

But at least, she decided, she would make a trip to Port¬ 
land and see what she could do. So one day in July, she 
walked over to the Morrison farm, pulling a small wagon on 
which Justin sat, gay in his own quiet way — a beautiful, 
four year old boy, very noticeable with the silver wing lying 


The Third Weaver 


223 


among his dark tresses, his grey eyes scanning the lovely 
countryside. 

Thaisa, looking back at him again and again, felt as always 
the high pride mount within her at his perfection, his dif¬ 
ference. . . . Felt again the surge of intense motherhood 
that would hold him against every odd on earth. 

Mrs. Morrison, sitting on her porch, rose at once and 
walked into the front yard when she saw Thaisa with Justin. 
Her eyes danced as she lifted the boy into her arms, and as 
she felt his lovely weight, a greedy look came into her face. 

Thaisa stated her errand. Would Mrs. Morrison care for 
the child while Thaisa made a necessary trip to Portland? 
This was, she said, the first time she had found it necessary, 
since Justin’s birth, to leave her home. But now she must 
do so, and it would be a very tiring trip for the boy. 

Eagerly Mrs. Morrison proclaimed her willingness. ‘ I’m 
going with Benjamin,’ Thaisa went on, ‘and I’ll be back 
before dark, I hope.’ 

‘ Stay as long as you wish,’ Mrs. Morrison urged. ‘ I’ll take 
good care of Justin.’ She did not look at Thaisa as she spoke. 
Even now she held dark suspicions in her heart, but she was 
willing to endure any contact for the sake of the child who 
had come to fill a deep place in her hungry life. 

In Portland, Thaisa walking down Alder Street, was deep 
in thought. She went first to the department stores, show¬ 
ing some of her finest work, hoping to receive orders. But 
again she found scant encouragement. Only on commission 
basis now could her handiwork be handled. She knew what 
of time lost this meant. 

If she could find her own customers! So she set out. She 


22 4 


The Third Weaver 


went, after a short ride, down St. John’s Street, walked to 
several doors and rang door bells. Two doors were pre¬ 
cipitously shut in her face. Crimson with humiliation, she 
stopped short in the street and thought of the inhumanity 
of woman to woman. 

Memory of Justin came. No mortification must keep her 
from providing for him. Strengthened by this thought, she 
went on again, this time to back doors. 

And as she went, she thought of Jenny, of how dramat¬ 
ically she had told her story in the Van Valkenberg mansion. 
Jenny, rough-shod, but never helpless. 

She thought then how alike was human experience; yes, 
the common lot, pain and work. For a second, as she stood 
awaiting the opening of a door at which she had just rapped, 
she got a quickened sense of fellowship with all men, the one 
purpose of each part to perpetuate the whole, and in this 
illumination she lost sight of self. 

Perhaps it was the uplifted look in her face that opened 
wide the door before which she stood. A sweet-faced 
woman looked at her wares and bought nearly all. 

17 

So her new way of selling opened. She found Mrs. Morri¬ 
son eager to care for Justin the two days a week that she 
went to Portland. 

But the work was difficult and often disheartening. Her 
feet ached and throbbed when the day ended and she sought 
the train for home. Her arms yearned for the touch of 
Justin. Each day that she was away from him seemed end- 


The Third Weaver 


225 


less, and when at last, weary and travel stained, she reached 
the Morrison place, she would close her eyes to intensify 
the ecstasy the first sound of his young voice brought. 

One June day, when she returned toward sundown, she 
felt, as soon as she entered the Morrison home that some 
change had come, or some conclusion perhaps been arrived 
at during her absence. Justin, as always, ran to meet her. 
The silver wing stood out clear upon his head, and suddenly 
for the first time in years, she remembered that meeting in 
the park in New York when Peter, sweeping his cap from 
his head, revealed this similar white line that gleamed in 
the sun. 

But quickly she put the memory from her. All this was 
past and gone, not ever to be thought of again. 

She caught Justin, flushed and lovely, to her and drank in 
his little words: ‘Mother, where have you been? . . . 
Mother, I played ball today.’ Over the dark head she caught 
a glimpse of a table set, contrary to the usual custom, in the 
dining room, and Mrs. Morrison beside it, smoothing a 
white cloth. 

‘ Morrison’s in the barn,’ Mrs. Morrison commenced, com¬ 
ing into the kitchen where Thaisa stood. ‘We want you 
should stay to supper, so we waited for you. . . . Did you 
notice the MacFarland farm is rented? ’ 

No, Thaisa had not noticed. She had walked fast, this 
being a day when Benjamin could not bring her back the 
entire way. ‘ Yes,’ Mrs. Morrison went on, ‘ to foreigners of 
a kind. They’re smart enough, though, to work the hop 
yard, and they’re going to sell to English buyers, now 
America has come to be too good to drink beer.’ 


226 


The Third Weaver 


Morrison came in. They entered the dining room, sat 
down to supper, Thaisa still puzzled by this hospitality. 

‘ Was Justin a bother? * she began, her hand touching her 
boy’s as he sat beside her. 

‘ No, he’s never a bother.’ 

‘ I didn’t run away, Mother,’ Justin volunteered. 

‘ I’m glad,’ Thaisa returned. She ate the delicious 
creamed potatoes, drank the inspiriting coffee, and waited 
for the something that was in the air to pyramid itself. And 
in time the farmer pushed back his chair, cleared his throat 
and began: ‘ Mis’ Worthington, we’ve been talking about 
some things.’ 

Thaisa glanced from him to his wife. The woman’s eyes 
were alight, her heavy face strangely animated. 

‘ We want to adopt this boy and give him a proper name,’ 
the old farmer continued, and while Thaisa sat, tensely on 
guard, he hastened on: ‘ My wife has always loved him, and 
I’ve been seeing of late what a great lad he is. And that 
snow-path in his hair, I’ve heard tell, brings luck.’ 

Thaisa turned to Justin, whose sleepy head was nodding 
against her shoulder. With a quick movement, she lifted 
him into her arms. 

‘ Don’t talk too hasty,’ Mrs. Morrison put in. ‘ It’ll be for 
the boy’s good, and you’re having a hard time taking care 
of him.’ 

Thaisa did not speak. The two pair of eyes bored into 
her. She grew frightened. ‘ We’ll give him a name, as 
we’ve said,’ Mrs. Morrison pursued. 

‘ He has a name of his own. I have told you before. My 
husband, the boy’s father, is in France.’ 


The Third Weaver 


227 


‘ It doesn’t matter what you get up for self-protection,’ 
said Morrison. ‘ We want the lad. The wife here — for all 
I drove her to his birth hour — wants him worse than any¬ 
thing she’s ever wanted. Isn’t that so, Bessie ? ’ 

‘Yes. . . 

‘ Well then, we’ll do our best by him, even to a fine edu¬ 
cation, Mis’ Worthington, and you can go free.’ 

Thaisa rose, holding the sleeping child against her heart. 
‘ There is no reason known to God or man why I should 
give up my boy,’ she said. ‘ He is of honorable parentage 
and can hold his head up before the world.’ 

She walked around the table — half stumbling on a cro¬ 
cheted rug whose corner turned up — and went swiftly 
toward the door. 

‘ You’d better stay the night,’ said Mrs. Morrison, ‘ and in 
the morning you’ll see clearer.’ 

Thaisa saw that her statements had made no effect upon 
these people. 

‘ No — no, thank you. . . .’ she murmured and went on 
with her burden into the kitchen, Mrs. Morrison close 
behind her. The woman put her hand out as though 
to bar the way, but Thaisa sprang past and out into the 
night. 

Near the gate, she caught sight of Justin’s little wagon. 
Catching it by the handle, she dragged it after her. 

Stumbling at times — for she was very weary — she went 
down the road, the child growing heavier against her breast, 
the wagon clanking at her heels. 

Shadows seemed to leap out at her. And hands reached 
out to take her son. She held him tighter, going on down 


228 


The Third Weaver 


the dark road, seeing ever the menace of those who would 
rob her of a beauty inexpressibly precious. 

She reached the shack at last. Within, she put Justin 
down and lit a lamp. 

Don waking, chirped and waited for her reply. But her 
stiff lips could utter no word. She undressed Justin and put 
him to bed. Then carefully, so he might not wake, she 
dragged two heavy chairs against the door and sat watching 
till dawn came, dark and wretched fears within her. 

18 

But the clear light of day brought the relief of common 
sense. 

The Morrisons could not take Justin from her unless she 
wished to give him up. It lay within her hands to bestow 
or withhold this gift. 

Still, there were new problems to be faced. No longer 
could she go to the Morrison farm for milk and eggs. And 
within walking distance, there lay no other farm. 

Except the MacFarland place. Now she remembered 
there were new tenants there, and she wondered if they 
would be able and willing to supply any of her necessities. 

Finding her courage then, with Justin in his little wagon 
she walked by the farm one day. The front yard as she 
passed was empty, but at the moment a woman emerged 
from the house and came to stand near the platform where 
once Jenny had stolen, jealously seeking Richard. 

Thaisa stopped. In the distance she could see a finely 
kept cow browsing in a nearby field. 


The Third Weaver 


229 


The woman approached the gate. She was a tall, pale 
woman with thin lips and cool, pale eyes. Her black 
hair was drawn tight back from a knobby and shiny fore¬ 
head. ‘Good afternoon,’ Thaisa said, and the woman 
nodded. 

‘I should like to buy milk from you. Is that possible?’ 
Thaisa went on. 

‘ No,’ the woman returned plainly, flatly. ‘ We’re selling 
it in town.’ 

Whether or not this statement was true, Thaisa could not 
know. But some deep feeling within made her believe she 
was being boycotted. 

The woman continued to stand there, staring. There was 
no malice in her face, only an animal curiosity as she stared 
from Justin to Thaisa. She had, then, been given a Morri¬ 
son interpretation. Thaisa turned, walked back again. She 
would have Benjamin procure canned milk from Beasley 
for Justin. 

Her future now looked dark and unpromising. But the 
child precluded any falling by the wayside. 

New life, new forces within her, were springing to meet 
her needs. 

As she went, a whirring noise attracted her attention. She 
paused, eyes raised to the sky. 

Presently: ‘ Big bird, big Don,’ Justin cried. And then a 
great plane flew over them in a wide circle, as though search¬ 
ing. Finally the machine settled in a clear field. 

Though the sight of the plane was unusual, Thaisa went 
on, Justin chattering in his little wagon. But as she passed 
the acreage where the machine had landed, a man stepped 


230 


The Third Weaver 


out, and, coming toward her, lightly vaulted an old barbed 
wire fence. 

Something familiar in the figure as it advanced stopped 
Thaisa in her path. And then she cried out: ‘ Bertram ! 9 

Bertram Lewis indeed —whom she had recognized despite 
the deep graven scar that extended across his face from eyes 
to chin. He came close, hands extended. 

They stood, Thaisa still shaken, unable to believe that lit¬ 
erally from a clear sky had come this reminder of a past now 
so dim, so far away. He had, she saw, deepened. Not 
merely a rich man’s son now, able to indulge any vagrant 
fancy, but one aged somewhat and facing facts in a world 
not quite so gay and irresponsible. 

‘ I came to see you,’ he said, and with a glance at Justin: 
‘ Your child, Thaisa ? I had not heard.’ 

‘Yes.’ 

‘ He is like you.’ He put his hand out to the boy. Justin, 
at once friendly, laughed in his accustomed solemn manner, 
and Bertram smiled back. 

‘ You live near here, Thaisa ? ’ 

‘ Yes. Shall we walk to my place ? ’ She relinquished the 
wagon handle to Lewis and walked down the road with 
him, mystified. 

Once within the shack she anchored Justin among his 
toys, made tea for Lewis, and awaited the explanation of this 
strange, fairylike visit. 

He began at once: ‘ I was in the war, Thaisa, and when I 
came back I kept on flying. . . . My father still foots the 
bills.’ 

‘ What about the theatre, Bertram? ’ 


The Third Weaver 


231 


He touched lightly the horrid scar that crossed his face. 
‘With this? . . . An honorable scar so termed, but not in 
any way to be concealed.’ 

He did not mean, she saw, to go into details, and she 
would not press him: ‘ I’m staying now at Vancouver and 
practicing round a Government Fort. I may yet go into the 
commercial end of aviation. ... I flew in the war.’ 

She was silent, waiting. ‘ Thaisa,’ he went on, ‘ I’m here 
because I met a friend of yours over there who wanted me 
to see you and give you a small gift.’ 

‘ Who was it ? ’ Her hands were trembling. 

‘ Ian Trevor. We were together a great deal. Miracle, 
we thought, that we both knew you.’ 

He went on: ‘We used to talk, and when we dis¬ 
covered our mutual acquaintanceship with you, he asked me, 
in the event of anything happening to him to bring you 
this. . . .’ 

He went fumbling into his pocket — still not daring to 
meet her eyes — and produced a square envelope and a 
small package. 

These he gave into her cold hand. The tissue-paper be¬ 
neath the heavier paper was old, and very carefully she 
spread its fragile folds. Within lay a brooch of green gold 
set with small perfect pearls. 

‘The brooch belonged to Ian’s mother, and Ian wanted 
you to have it — to wear it. . . .’ 

Seeing her emotion, he went on talking. . . Trevor did 
not, of course, know whether you would be here or not — but 
he drew a diagram of this place for me — and I believed I 
could find it easily. ... It wasn’t so easy after all. I came 


* 3 * 


The Third Weaver 


out several times, cruising about, trying to get my bear¬ 
ings . . .’ 

. . . And on and on he talked, until she had mastered her¬ 
self. Then: * I’m flying back to Vancouver,’ he said, ‘but 
I shall come again. There may be something I can do 
for you.’ 

She found her voice. ‘ Is he — dead ? ’ 

He nodded. ‘ He won a score of fights in the air — then 
one day the wing of his machine was hurt and — he came 
down. . . • All France thought him brave and splen¬ 
did. . . .* 

With a pitying glance, he left her. Don burst into song 
that swelled his tiny yellow throat. Thaisa did not look at 
the bird, nor when his tones died away, answer his demand 
for praise. . . . 

She could hear the sound of the plane as it soared up. . . . 
Then, in time, silence. 


19 

She walked to the cage and said to Don, ‘ He gave you to 
me.’ She remembered Ian’s words, ‘ Captive, but a singer.’ 

After a time, she pinned the brooch to her dress. She 
touched it and seemed to invoke his presence. Once more, 
eager and glowing, he stood before her. ‘Ian,’ she whis¬ 
pered, ‘ Ian. . . .’ 

Hard, bitter tears she shed then for her lover. Bitter tears 
for what might have been. But as the days went, she girded 
herself. Her child needed her strength and her laughter. 
Press down, then, the sorrow and the pain, and go on. 


The Third Weaver 


233 


Lewis came many times in his big plane that darkened the 
sky. He was anxious that she go up with him, but flying 
was not to be thought of for the child. Too hard on a small 
heart — so Lewis thought. 

But on one visit he brought a young man with him, and 
while this alert youngster ‘ Billy ’ remained to care for 
Justin, Thaisa went for a short flight. . . . Fear, at first, 
but soon exhilaration awakening many strange and deep 
thoughts. 

The earth below, how small the earth! Man, building, 
dominating this bird marvel, but himself so confused. 

But she grew calmer, less intense. Values changed. Even 
Justin, for whom she would easily yield her life if need called 
— even Justin seemed less important now. More himself, 
an honored guest within her gates. . . . And she remem¬ 
bered the youth in the tapestry, whose power, she was wont 
to think, came from his indifference. But was it not his 
consciousness that he must journey the way alone — that he 
could never know another, for he himself would forever 
remain a stranger ? 

. . . Down on the earth again, but her contemplations had 
left something. The valley, as she trod it, seemed remote, 
while looking up, reality began. 

Several times, seeing how she loved to fly, Lewis brought 
Billy to care for Justin, while Thaisa went up in the ship. 
He helped also in a practical way, by carrying her loom work 
to the stores in Vancouver, thus opening newer markets for 
her. And he asked her no questions, though he knew she 
had left Peter. 

Justin, too, greatly admired the big bird. He would stand 


234 


The Third Weaver 


entranced while it rose, circled, returned to the ground. 
‘ Justin’s a fine, outstanding little chap,’ Lewis remarked one 
day, as he and Thaisa sat outside on the steps of the shack 
and Justin played about them. ‘ He is like Dagmar—I can 
see that — he talks like him in that slow way. . . .’ 

He gazed off into the distance: ‘ I saw a bit of Dagmar in 
Chicago. I missed him in France. Correspondent, I sup¬ 
pose you know, for Foster’s Weekly, which has grown to 
be a notable paper. ... He did some fine work. After¬ 
wards, he got in the fighting end. Now he’s in New York, 
though not doing much, I hear. He has days on end of 
black depression. Work in the war did his nerves no good.’ 

He went on when she did not answer. 

‘Strangeley read one of Dagmar’s plays; he feels he can 
do something very worth while if he’ll work. Strangeley’s 
a well-known manager now, and he speaks often of you. 
He says when you come back — as he’s always sure you 
will — he’ll make you great, with what you have to give. 
He has all the patience to wait for you, and unbounding faith. 
You will go back some day, Thaisa ? ’ 

‘ I don’t know; I never make plans.’ 

4 About Dagmar,’ he continued. ‘ Strange, with a son like 
that, he doesn’t buckle down to life, even if you and he 
didn’t hit it off.’ 

She spoke very quietly: ‘He knows nothing of Justin.’ 

In amazement: ‘ He doesn’t know?’ 

‘ No. I don’t wish him to know. I can take care of my 
child.’ 

‘ But is that all, the ability to take care of the boy ? Is 
that all ? And Dagmar himself ? ’ He stopped short. ‘ You 


The Third Weaver 


2 3$ 


know best, of course. You know where relationships have 
failed you. . . . But does man ever reach his dreams? ’ 

She felt his battle and said: ‘I hope you’ll be happy, 
Bertram.’ 

‘ I shall be in my own way. . . . You know I am a Jew, 
and there is work for us. My people swarm — a problem in 
themselves. American Jewish life is so rich, so complicated, 
thick full of viciousness and nobility, shot through with the 
majestic tragedy of an old race panting for life. I want to 
help. . . .’ There was a burning in his eyes. 

After a time: 4 Well, we’re borne afar. I go to France and 
return with this . . .’ Lightly he touched the horrible scar. 
‘. . . and still go on — diverged of course — but I go on. 
And Reba, the woman I’d give my soul for, sees only Strange- 
ley, who is quite blind to her beauty. And you. . . . Here 
you are in a little God-forsaken shack, raising your child 
alone. . . . But Thaisa, don’t think you’ve lost contact with 
a world that will some day acclaim you. Remember that 
once I prophesied to your father about your future, when 
you’d penetrated experience for yourself. . . . You’ve 
touched life at first hand, and the future is yet to be.’ 

He rose. ‘ Is there anything I can do for you? I shall be 
able to come out again perhaps once more.’ 

‘ Yes; ’ she replied. 4 If you’d go into Portland to the City 
Hall and get me a copy of the certificate registering Justin’s 
birth — with the names of his parents. . . .’ 

His face saddened. 4 What are they trying to do to you, 
Thaisa ? ’ 

4 They can do nothing to me,’ she said, 4 but they musn’t 
hurt Justin. Will you bring me the paper?’ 


23 6 


The Third Weaver 


He nodded, and with a parting word was gone. 

He did not come again. He wrote, enclosing a copy of the 
certificate and saying that he had been called back to 
Chicago. 

20 

After Justin was asleep, Thaisa sat out on the steps, look- 
into a brilliant moonlit night — pondering. 

The night with its radiance brought the thought of Ian 
very close. His influence seemed upon her and she stood 
up, reached out her hands — her characteristic attitude when 
deeply moved — and cried aloud into the silver mystery: 
‘ Ian. . . . Ian! ’ and in the peace that stole upon her, she re¬ 
fused to believe in death. 


21 

Attracted by some unusual sound, she turned and saw that 
a group of people were coming down the road. Strange! 
Her heart commenced to beat in agitated rhythm. 

A small company came on, stopped before her gate, en¬ 
tered into the front yard and halted to face her as she stood — 
eyes wide and black, all color gone from her lips. 

Quite still she stood, pale of face, but erect with courage. 

She saw Morrison, and his wife, the woman living on the 
MacFarland farm and two others — men. 

‘ What do you want ? ’ she asked, for there was menace in 
these faces. 

Morrison stepped nearer. As he stood gazing at her, he 
struck a deep memory. The man Kraus! The same ex- 


The Third Weaver 


237 


pression, avaricious for something that should be sacred — 
kept from marauding hands. It was Kraus; she felt a hot, 
covetous touch. Then her eyes and mind cleared. . . . 
Simply Morrison, the Scotch farmer. 

But he was coveting a treasure. And her mind leaped out 
for some help in this hour. Richard perhaps, coming with a 
protection to hold above her — coming in the rain. Her 
father — some one to put out a hand. Suddenly she felt piti¬ 
ably alone and weak. 

Then, even before Morrison spoke, courage returned to 
her. . . . 

‘We’ve come,’ said Morrison, ‘to ask once more for the 
child. We’ll adopt him legally, as we’ve told you.’ 

‘ I do not want to give my child away. There is no reason 
why I should. I can care for him in every way necessary.’ 

‘ He’ll have a fine name.’ 

‘ He has a fine name of his own. And I have a certificate 
testifying to the legality of his birth.’ 

‘ Whose certificate ? ’ 

‘ Dr. Simmons’.’ 

‘ He put down what you told him, that’s all.’ 

‘ It can all be verified.’ 

Mrs. Morrison moved nearer. ‘ It isn’t only whether the 
child is legitimate,’ she said, ‘ but that you’re not fit to raise 
him. We know of your doings, up in an airship with a 
man, and you a lone woman without a husband.’ 

‘ No, you’re not the right kind to rear a little fellow,’ the 
woman with the curious eyes put in. 

Thaisa’s head went up proudly: ‘ Is that all you have to 


2 3 8 


The Third Weaver 


‘No/ Morrison spoke again. ‘Give the boy to us to be 
raised honorably, so he can look every man in the face, or — 
were a committee here — we’ll go to court and swear all we 
know about you/ 

‘And more! . . / A smile touched Thaisa’s lips, and 
seeing this, one of the men said: ‘ Look how brazen she is! 
Why not just take the child, Morrison? We’d be doing the 
right thing. Any judge would uphold you.’ 

Morrison’s expression betrayed that he was not so sure of 
this. But his wife, close at his elbow, leaned eagerly forward. 

Again fear sprang into Thaisa’s heart. Desire and hatred 
were abroad here. And how speciously they could explain 
their vandal act! . . . To enter now and seize Justin, even 
to hold him for a few days, until, in some manner through 
law and cupidity, the child should be given permanently 
into their care. This way, she saw, they were prepared 
to take. 

Swiftly she turned and went into the shack. With hands 
whose trembling she could scarcely control, she shut the 
door, shoved a chair against it, and turned in search of the 
gun that still stood in its corner. 

She lifted the gun and, going to the window open to the 
night air, she projected her head: ‘I have a gun here/ 
she cried, and raised the rusty length to support her 
words. ‘Loaded. . . . I’ll shoot anyone who comes near 
my home.’ 

‘ You know what that unlawful act would mean! ’ Morri¬ 
son shouted. 

‘As lawful as your intentions! You have invaded my 
home, and I’ll protect my own.’ 


The Third Weaver 


239 


Her hands ceased their trembling, and strength poured 
into her. 

They stood, the men and the women talking among them¬ 
selves, occasionally glancing toward the figure in the win¬ 
dow. And all the time Thaisa never wavered, never moved 
from her intent to keep within her domain the child who 
lay in his bed, sleeping peacefully through all the drama. 

Once Morrison ventured near the window. Thaisa 
steadied the gun against her shoulder, took aim, and cried 
out, * Not another step, Mr. Morrison. This is my home.’ 

He stepped back quickly, but still to Thaisa’s eyes he was 
a sinister figure. His spade-like beard seemed to move, to 
threaten. But she kept her finger firmly against the gun. 
Her throat was dry and her lips parched as from fever, but 
she felt herself strong, while they outside were afraid and 
weak. 

She was racial now, utterly primitive, fighting for what 
belonged to her. Would she pull the trigger of this rusty 
old gun if one of these men should come forward ? 

Without a doubt, she knew she would. 

For an hour she sat; then Morrison once more approached. 
But from a distance, he shouted: ‘We’ll have the law on you, 
Mis’ Worthington. We’ll see whether you can keep an 
innocent child to corrupt by your ways.’ 

To this threat she returned no reply. In the moonlight 
her face was sharp cut, lifted high, and the light in her eyes 
unwavering. 

She saw them turn and leave reluctantly. And all was 
silent. 

She did not close the window; she merely relinquished the 


240 


The Third Weaver 


gun for a second, then picking it up again, she took aim 
steadily at the tree stump and fired. 

There was a flash —a powder smell. A smile touched 
her lips. She had not been sure that the gun was loaded, but 
who — knowing Richard — would believe he would take 
precautions to empty the chambers ? Still, she had not been 
sure. 

She turned to regard Justin. The reverberation had not 
disturbed him. Unconscious and beautiful childhood. She 
could see the silver wing glistening in a shaft of moonlight 
that came through the window. 

A small noise disturbed her. But it was only Don stirring 
in his cage. The thought came that perhaps Morrison and 
his crew might return, hoping to take her unarmed. 

She knew now that they would not hesitate at anything. 
Passion had made them lawless though they prated of 
justice. . . . 

She resumed her place at the window, her hand upon the 
gun. The night wore on, grew black and she could see 
dancing shadows about — catch eerie sounds. 

She turned again to regard the sleeping child and a great 
sense of possession flooded her. Now he was completely 
her own . 


22 

Dawn came. The little bird began to sing. Justin stirred. 
He was always an early waker. She closed the window and 
leaned the gun against the sill. Then she lifted Justin and 
dressed him. This morning there was deeper joy in her 


The Third Weaver 


241 


ministrations. It was an instinctive act, and the first time 
that as she combed the waving hair she sought to hide the 
silver wing beneath a thick, dark strand. 

Later, she prepared their morning meal and with her 
new courage strong upon her, she flung the door open to 
the sunshine. She stood peering into her world, and saw 
the slow years going on, while the life beside her grew and 
blossomed. To this service, she would dedicate all, and draw 
her sustenance from the need and the returning love of 
her child. 

After her small household duties were finished, she took 
out her silks and her dyes and set to work at her kitchen 
stove. In time, the pale, raw strands came out purple, wine- 
red, gold and peacock-blue. 

Justin, running about happily, came to lean against her. 
She turned, lifted him hungrily and pressed him to her. 

Surprised at her vehemence he searched her face, then 
threw his small arms about her neck murmuring little words. 
The impulsive action gave her exquisite joy. Knowing him 
to be her whole destiny, his love for her, undivided and clear, 
seemed the perfect crown. 

At noon, old Benjamin stopped before her gate. He was 
upset, she saw at once as she met him at the door. He spoke 
quickly: * Oh, Mis’ Thaisa they’re all up against you! ’ 

‘I know, Benjamin. They came here last night with 
threats.’ 

‘Yes; and they’re going over to the county seat near 
Beasley today to see Judge Caper. He’s a hard one, and 
they’re a vengeful lot.’ 

‘ Don’t worry, Benjamin.’ 


242 


The Third Weaver 


‘ But this judge, Mis’ Thaisa, he’s thin lipped and cruel, and 
he wants to keep in with the farmers about. . . Old Ben¬ 
jamin went away, shaking his head, greatly disturbed. 

For a moment she stood watching Justin at play with his 
engine and blocks. Then with light, firm step she moved 
to the small table near the window and sat down. From a 
tin box in the drawer, she took out the certificate and made a 
clear copy, leaving it on the table ready for any use. 

At noon she heard an automobile horn sounding in the 
distance. Seizing the paper, and with a word to Justin to re¬ 
main indoors, she ran down the path, stood in the road and 
waited till the oncoming car was almost upon her. 

The driver, of necessity, stopped. It was Morrison, with 
his wife, and in the seat behind were a man and woman — 
two of those who had surrounded her home the night before. 

‘Well? . . .’ Morrison began curtly. 

Thaisa handed him the paper. Her voice was steady. 
‘ Here is a copy of the certificate I spoke about. You can 
look up the facts.’ 

‘ Very well, we will. Where’s the boy’s father? ’ 

‘ This address will follow him.’ She gave the old Chicago 
number, and Morrison—his eyes disbelieving — copied 
down what she told him. 

He threw at her then: ‘ Even if it’s proved he’s legal-born, 
we think we can do better by him than you can. And his 
father won’t raise no fuss. Why, he hasn’t been to see the 
child since he was born; we’ve made sure of that.’ 

‘ You can never take my son from me,’ said Thaisa steadily. 
‘ Never.’ 

They drove away with no further words. 


The Third Weaver 


M3 



23 


Thaisa disdained to retreat in any way. She took Justin for 
walks down the road and through the woods. Sometimes, 
as twilight came on, she would go with him into the little 
garden she had spaded, and to his great delight play hide- 
and-seek with him, or holding his small hands dance lightly 
and gracefully round the mulberry tree. 

There were, of course, the serious moments. She took 
stock of herself. She was thirty and filled with a purpose 
more definite than she had ever known. But there was the 
problem of the boy’s future—his education — to be faced. 

But for this summer she would put heavy thoughts away. 
. . . Old Benjamin, staunch and always ready to help, 
brought her supplies from Beasley and took her loom work 
to mail from that point. The Morrisons and their threats 
Thaisa refused to think about. 

It came about then, that one day, later in the summer, 
when she was playing with Justin in the small garden, she 
glanced down the road and saw a figure approaching. 

At once, despite the slight limp, she knew. . . . Peter! 

She stopped, stood perfectly still, and in that second of 
waiting, a hundred surmises went through her mind. 

Peter knew then. The legal machinery had searched him 
out for confirmation of what the birth certificate contained. 
Yes, he had been sent for, and now he was here. 

Wildly, she looked about. Then, with an ungovernable 
instinct to hide Justin, she ran to the boy, seized him in her 
arms and entered the shack, knowing that Peter could not 


244 


The Third Weaver 


see this drama for the trees that hid his vision. Closing the 
door, she half fell against it, while she fought to recover 
her breath. 

She heard Peter open the gate, come slowly down the path, 
and still she remained, Justin clinging to her skirts, fright¬ 
ened and bewildered. 

But, as Peter’s knock came, she found her senses and her 
poise. There need be little exchange between them. . . . 
Simply to verify the facts she had given Morrison, and then 
he could depart. ‘ Go to Mother’s room,’ she told Justin, 
* and build her a great house with a tall steeple.’ 

He fell in with her plans. £ All right,’ he answered. She 
shut him in, holding the door handle tight, concentrated in 
the one will to keep him there, to keep him for her own. 

Then she flung the outer door open and stood facing 
Peter. Seconds passed without words as they gazed at one 
another. In his face lay a question. Was this woman 
Thaisa? This slender, worn creature with the gallant, up¬ 
lifted head! 

And she looked at a man, familiar to her and yet greatly 
changed. ... A steadiness never before noted, though 
when he spoke his voice trembled. His eyes she saw too 
were filled with a loneliness and hunger, which at once she 
interpreted as desire for the child of whose existence he had 
just learned. She said at length, ‘ Come in,’ and he stepped 
into the known room. For a moment, memory made him 
breathless. 

Then he began, as though explanation were due her 
for an intrusion: ‘I was moved by an irresistible impulse 
to come.’ 


The Third Weaver 


245 


‘ You received no word, no letter, then ? ’ she cried. 

‘ No — nothing.’ 

Relief filled her. His visit at this time then was a coinci¬ 
dence. He had not received the certificate. Morrison had 
disdained the proof. Peter did not know. And all the 
moments before inevitably he must learn of his child were 
golden and precious to her. 

‘ But how did you know I was here ? ’ she asked at length. 

‘Thaisa, when I received your letter saying you were go¬ 
ing away, I gave you your solitude as a gift. . . .’ 

‘ A gift ? ’ 

‘ Because I so longed for you. My every impulse was to 
fly to you.’ 

c But you did not know my hiding place ? ’ 

‘ It seemed only plausible that you should come here; there 
was no other place where you could so hide yourself away. 
And I verified that. . . .’ Then, after a pause, ‘ Often at 
night I have lain awake, trying to realize the hurt I did to 
your life. I remembered the picture of a boy and girl play¬ 
ing out there in the road. I was sure that you loved 
that boy, that he loved you, and that I should have gone 
away.’ 

She said suddenly, ‘ Peter, you’re very tired. Sit down.’ 

He took a chair near her loom, and she came to stand be¬ 
side him, tall and very slender. He reached up, took her 
hands, released them. After a moment she sank down on a 
stool close by. ‘ I told your father I was coming here, Thaisa. 
He has just returned from England and was greatly dis¬ 
turbed when Jenny told him that she had never heard from 
you.’ 


246 The Third Weaver 

‘England? 5 

‘ Yes. He tried to get into the war; but he was too old to 
fight — or they thought he was. I always just missed him, 
though we went over together.’ 

‘ I heard that you were in France. Were you injured ? ’ 

‘ I managed to get to the front; I was slightly hurt.’ She 
remembered his limp. He leaned forward earnestly. 

‘ Thaisa,’ he asked, ‘ will you tell me why you went away 
so abruptly? ... I thought we had come to some newer 
understanding at the time I left for New York.’ 

‘ My mother told me of her letter to you asking that you 
send for me,’ she told him directly. ‘ I could not stand your 
— generosity.’ 

‘Generosity! . . . You knew better, Thaisa. It was some¬ 
thing deeper striking into you. When you learned of Jenny’s 
letter, the thought that you had been turned aside from the 
greater thing was tragedy for you.’ 

Deep pain was in his eyes, and for a moment she closed 
her own. 

‘You never told me of the letter,’ she said, ‘but I saw 
the whole situation. You had escaped; your freedom was 
precious; you were beginning to forget; and then this call 
to your chivalry. . . .’ Even now the blood came smarting 
into her face. ‘ Oh, it was all so bitterly wrong, so cruel. 
No wonder you were so filled with dissatisfaction after our 
marriage.’ 

‘ You do not know the reason for that. ... I know now 
that I loved you completely, but always there was the per¬ 
sistent voice telling me that you were not mine—never 
really mine, Thaisa.’ 


The Third Weaver 


*47 


‘ Oh, to what stupid lengths my childish faith in a fated 
love led us both! ’ 

‘ No. I will not have you say or believe that, Thaisa. . . 

They sat without speaking; then Thaisa, changing the 
current, asked, ‘You are settled in New York?’ 

She meant now, he saw, to talk only of commonplaces. 
‘ Yes. Is there anything I can do for you, Thaisa ? ’ 
And gazing around the room, ‘Thaisa, are you going to 
stay on here? If you would come back and let me show 
you. . . .’ 

But at the look in her eyes he broke off. 

‘ I want you to feel you are quite unburdened,’ she said, 
‘ and free to go on with life in your own way.’ 

A little sound was heard, and Justin came from the other 
room. . . . ‘Mother,’ he cried. ‘Mother, it’s all done!’ 
And he stood blinking at the stranger. 

Peter, who had slackened in his chair, a blank and hope¬ 
less look upon his face, lifted himself. ' Mother! 9 Justin re¬ 
peated and ran to her, in his shy way burying his face in 
her lap. 

The color rushed to Thaisa’s brow. Her hand went strok¬ 
ing the child’s dark hair. But she was conscious of the life 
that raised itself in Peter. Quiveringly she realized that he 
had risen, that he stood over her, and that his voice choked 
on her name. 

She lifted the child’s face and turned it toward him: ‘ This 
is your son.’ 

The world about him seemed to revolve and for a space 
everything grew black. 

‘ He is named Justin. . . . Justin Dagmar.’ 


248 


The Third Weaver 


Peter, still reeling, gazing with unbelief, submerged 
in an emotion that sent the blood in rapid flow to his 
eyes, could not speak. Then, his vision clearing, he fixed 
his gaze on the upturned face of the boy, who stood 
looking with curiosity at the man who had brought such 
disturbance. 

Thaisa ruffled the waving hair. And Peter saw, lying 
along one side, the silver wing. 

The look in his eyes, as he gazed at Justin, revealed an al¬ 
most frightening depth of feeling — something living com¬ 
ing up through layers of dark despondency. 

‘ He was born here ? ’ he asked. ‘ And you were alone ? ’ 

She nodded. ‘He was born here. . . .’ Into her face 
came a deep look. He felt all she might have revealed but 
did not. He felt her hungers, her struggles, her rebellions 
and her adjustments. 

‘Here! ’ he said again. Ugliness and privation and stark 
loneliness! 

Justin whispered, ‘ Who is the man, Mother ? ’ 

And she answered after a pause: ‘ This is your father, 
Justin.’ 

‘ Fa — ther. . . He repeated the strange word. ‘ Fa — 
ther. . . .’ 

In a moment Peter was on his knees, his face buried in his 
hands. Thaisa cried, ‘ Peter, don’t! ’ But the tears fell from 
between his fingers. The child, disturbed, moved away and 
returned to his blocks. ... At last Thaisa dropped beside 
Peter and put her arm about his shoulders. ‘Don’t, Peter! ’ 
she cried again. 

‘ How can you ask me to be calm ? Am I not cast to the 


The Third Weaver 


249 


ground at what you have done for me? My son! And you 
bore him alone, in want — I know — I feel — no friendly 
hand to aid. Because your life once was tied up to mine — 
your gorgeous, vivid life dragged down to the instability 
of mine.’ 

‘ Peter. . . . Peter. . . .’ 

‘No, there is nothing to say. Despite all the wonder of 
what you have shown me, I wish I had not come. This is 
pain beyond a man’s strength to bear.’ 

‘ Peter, you have been ill. How could you come out of 
that dreadful time with steady nerves ? ’ 

‘You are sorry for me, I know—you little child of the 
park. . . . Always you have uplifted and damned people 
with your vision. ... " Are you Jesus come again? . . ” 
she asked me. And I was a burden to her — a thorn to prick 
and goad. . . . And then I abandoned her! ’ 

‘ You did not abandon me, Peter. . . . Peter, there is no 
blame. . . . And I am so happy in Justin. I ask only to be 
left alone with him.’ 

‘Yes, you shall be left alone.’ He lifted a face, stained 
with tears, distorted by his self-flagellation and passion. ‘ For 
see what has happened. Long ago you lost faith in a love 
ordained, and — after you had gone— there came to me that 
same faith in a love meant. . . . Yes, through some alchemy 
the faith came to me.’ 

But though her heart was touched, this gave her no joy. 
‘ There is just my child now,’ she whispered. 

Suddenly the edifice Justin had erected tumbled, and the 
boy cried out in dismay. 

‘ Help him, Peter,’ said Thaisa, and they rose together. 


250 


The Third Weaver 


He walked to Justin. ‘ The steeple fell,’ the lad mourned. 
Peter hesitated, then bent down. ‘ Do you think you can 
build it again? ’ Justin asked. 

‘ I can try,’ said Peter. 

Thaisa, watching, saw a new expression come up into 
Peter’s face like a wave of light. She saw the two heads, so 
alike, as they stayed close together, intent on the building, 
and a fierce wave of jealousy clutched her. Her knees shook 
with the effort to obey her will to rush across the room and 
take Justin from the man who had equal share in him. She 
had said, ‘Help him, Peter,’ but she had not dreamed the 
effect upon her seeing them thus — the boy Peter, Peter 
the boy. . . . Seeing that her fundamental service to the 
child could not change the inexorable truth of their rela¬ 
tionship, father and son. 

So she stood, trembling in the clasp of the wildest passion 
she had ever felt. 

24 

After a time, her pulses stopped their hard throbbing. But 
she still knew that to hold her own was her one desire. And 
when, like the prick of a sword, the thought of her inherit¬ 
ance intruded — Grandmother and Jenny refusing to meet 
life except on their own terms — she turned from the 
warning. 

For here was mere justice. Out of all her pain she had 
come up steadily against her need — the need to hold this 
life, the one beauty that would never fail her. 

She had fought for her child with a gun at her side; she 
could hold him with the weapon of her strong desire. She 


The Third Weaver 


251 

could let Peter feel the strength of this resolve, and he 
would go. 

As she gazed upon the two in their corner, the color rose 
high again in her face. For was that not lust in Peter’s eyes 
as he looked upon this undreamed-of son. She remembered 
back in the early studio days how he had thrilled at the 
thought of a child. . . . 

The mist cleared. She knew it was not lust in his face 
but a joy, a wonderment, as he looked at his child. 

But he must go; despite the tie between them, he must go. 

True, when he had fallen on his knees, torn by emotions 
he could not control, her sympathy had come pouring out. 
For any human being she would have felt that sympathy — 
any human being so bowed, so intensely filled with pain and 
remorse. 

But that weakness was over. She had fought through until 
she had to come to this place, this power to hold her own. 
Career, fame—all that in her deepest soul she knew might 
be hers — in this moment was like an ounce of sand that 
pursed lips might blow away as of no consequence, no mean¬ 
ing. . . . Only to hold to her own. 

Then, as though impelled, she turned and went to her 
loom and sat before it, her hands clasped. And as she 
sat, from out the past came once more the memory of the 
old tapestry and the youth with the outstretched hands. 
Clearly his face returned to her, uplifted, with the strong, 
beautiful look. She had struggled to an interpretation of 
that look. 

A holy indifference! What she had meant was an emer¬ 
gence, a coming of age in life. . . . A coming of age. . . . 


2 5 2 


The Third Weaver 


Peter approached, watch in hand. He must be on his 
way. As he neared Thaisa, he gazed at her closely. In her 
face there lay a nobility that he had not earlier marked, a 
courage unconquerable. And a serenity that yet made him 
more aware of the real woman. As she sat there before her 
loom, enriched it seemed by some understanding, he yet 
made a prayer: ‘ O God, let me open wide doors for 
her. . . 

She turned and spoke. ‘ Stay here, Peter, with us — with 
Justin and me.’ 









































